I sold my custom-built Alienware laptop—the one that cost me three thousand dollars—for fifty bucks of scrap metal. I did it because of my past life. In that life, my roommate’s computer had crashed right on the eve of our senior thesis submission deadline. I still remembered the sheer panic in her voice. “Izzy, the portal closes in an hour! Please, you have to let me borrow your laptop!” I had agreed immediately, wanting to be a good roommate. But Bella had forgotten to save her work, downloaded some sketchy formatting software that turned out to be ransomware, and wiped her entire capstone project. Because of that, she had to take an extension, failed to graduate on time, and lost her post-grad fellowship. Her parents showed up at the university with half their extended family, screaming that I was jealous of her fellowship, that I’d maliciously infected my own laptop with malware to sabotage her. The story went viral on TikTok and Twitter. I became the internet’s favorite villain—the bitter, toxic roommate. My dad tried to defend me. He went on camera to clear my name, only to be cornered outside his office by a mob of self-righteous vigilantes. They beat him so badly he died of a brain hemorrhage. After that, my life became a living hell. No one would hire me. The depression swallowed me whole, and eventually, I jumped from the roof of our apartment building. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Right on the eve of our thesis defense. I had just gotten rid of the laptop when Bella came bursting through the door, tears streaming down her face. “Izzy, my hard drive just crashed! Let me borrow your Alienware, please!” I didn’t even look up from my phone. “Go to the campus library computer lab if you need to write. What does that have to do with me?” … Bella’s tears stopped instantly. She stared at me, dumbfounded. “Izzy… how can you be so cold? The library lab closes at ten, and my draft is due first thing in the morning!” She reached out to grab my sleeve, but I slipped out of her reach. At the other desk, Courtney paused her game and pulled off her headphones, looking at me with disapproval. “Come on, Izzy, that’s harsh. We’re roommates. It’s a laptop, not your kidney. Bella is literally having a panic attack. You’ve got that three-thousand-dollar rig just sitting there. Why are you being so selfish?” I packed my notebook and water bottle into my bag and pointed at Courtney’s desk. “You have a laptop right there. Why don’t you lend her yours?” Courtney rolled her eyes. “Mine is a desktop setup, and Bella hates mechanical keyboards. Plus, my guild is doing a raid tonight.” “So your gaming raid is more important than her thesis, but I’m the one who has to hand over my property?” Bella’s eyes welled with tears again, looking utterly pathetic. “Izzy, I know you’re bitter about the department fellowship. But that was the committee’s decision, not mine. You can’t sabotage my entire future just because you didn’t get selected!” She raised her voice, making sure it carried. A couple of girls passing by in the hallway stopped, peering into our room. Megan from next door leaned against the doorframe, chewing on a piece of gum. “Wow. Talk about petty. The fellowship is based on merit, Izzy. Don’t take it out on her laptop.” “Yeah, she’s rich anyway. The richer they are, the stingier,” another girl muttered. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and let out a cold laugh. “How you actually secured that fellowship, Bella? You and I both know the truth. Don’t make me spill it right here.” Bella’s face paled slightly, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt, but she quickly recovered her self-righteous look. “Don’t you dare slander me! I’ve had a perfect GPA every semester. I earned that fellowship!” “Great. If you’re so accomplished, use your scholarship money to buy your own computer. Leave me out of it.” I shoved past the crowd blocking the doorway and walked out. Behind me, Bella stamped her foot and screamed, “Isabel, if you walk out that door, we are completely done! Three years of friendship, gone!” “Suits me fine. I was getting tired of the company anyway.” I didn’t look back, letting the door slam shut behind me. As I reached the lobby, my phone started vibrating relentlessly. Hundreds of notifications flooded our class group chat. Bella was playing the victim, heavily implying I was withholding my laptop right before her deadline out of pure jealousy. Courtney had posted three angry emojis, tagging everyone to side-eye me: “Always thought she was quiet, but turns out she’s just toxic. Can’t stand to see someone else succeed.” Justin, the student rep, immediately jumped in to play savior. “Don’t worry, Bella. I’ve got an old MacBook you can use. Don’t let petty people get to you.” Bella replied instantly: “Thank you, Justin. Glad to know there are still decent people left. Not like some black-hearted snakes.” My thumb hovered over the “Leave Group” button, but I paused and pulled it back. Leaving now would be too easy on them. The cyberbullying, the threats, the relentless harassment my father and I endured in my past life—this time, I was going to make them choke on every single word. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Mr. Conrad, our academic advisor. “Isabel, I need you in my office. Right now.” His tone left no room for negotiation. When I arrived, Bella was already sitting across from Mr. Conrad, sobbing quietly into a tissue. Mr. Conrad frowned deeply as I walked in, gesturing for me to sit beside her. “I’ve been watching the group chat, Isabel,” he said, sounding like a disappointed parent. “You’re classmates, and you’re about to graduate. Why does it have to be this toxic?” I remained standing. “Mr. Conrad, my laptop is my personal property. Choosing not to lend it out doesn’t violate any university policy, does it?” “It doesn’t violate policy, no, but it violates basic decency. If Bella can’t submit her capstone, her graduation will be delayed. Are you prepared to take responsibility for ruining her career?” He set his mug down heavily on the desk. Bella sniffled, playing the peacemaker. “Mr. Conrad, please don’t blame Izzy. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let my computer crash and stress her out.” “You see that, Isabel? Look at her maturity, then look at yours!” He pointed a finger at me. “Go back to the dorm, get the laptop, and let’s put this behind us.” I stared at them, amused by their little routine. “Mr. Conrad, if you’re feeling so generous, why don’t you lend her your office desktop?” “That’s entirely different! This is university property, loaded with sensitive department records!” “And my laptop has my senior thesis and private personal data. Why is my privacy worth less than yours?” Mr. Conrad’s hand shook with anger. “You… you are being utterly unreasonable! This is a severe character issue!” Suddenly, Bella’s phone rang. She pressed speakerphone, and a middle-aged man’s voice boomed through the office. “Bella? Did that little brat Isabel give you the laptop yet? Who does she think she is, treating my daughter like this?” “Dad, please don’t get upset. Mr. Conrad is trying to talk to her,” Bella whimpered. “Talk to her? She’s just a jealous, bitter girl from a family of nobodies. I know her type. You wait—your mother and I will be at the campus tomorrow to handle this ourselves!” The voice was loud enough to echo into the hallway. Mr. Conrad shifted uncomfortably but didn’t say a word to stop him. Outside the door, several students who had come to turn in papers were whispering and peeking in. “Isabel is taking this way too far. Even the advisor told her to lend it.” “I heard her family struggles. No wonder she guards that Alienware like it’s made of gold.” I looked directly at Mr. Conrad. “Mr. Conrad, Bella’s father just verbally harassed and threatened me over the phone. As my advisor, you didn’t intervene; instead, you’re helping them pressure me. I’ve recorded this entire conversation, and I will be sending it directly to the Dean’s office to ask if the university condones bullying and extortion.” Mr. Conrad turned pale. He lunged across the desk to grab my phone. “What do you think you’re doing? Delete that! You want to blow a minor roommate dispute out of proportion to the Dean?” I stepped back, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Whether it’s minor is for the Dean to decide. As for my laptop—I’ve already sold it. Even if you try to squeeze the life out of me, I don’t have an Alienware to give her.” I turned and walked out, ignoring the shouts behind me. When I reached the dorm lobby, Courtney sent a photo to the group chat. It showed my personal locker, the lock completely smashed, the metal door bent out of shape. “Hey Izzy, thought you said you sold your laptop? Then what’s this sitting in your locker? You’re a pathological liar.” I rushed back to the room. It was a complete mess. Courtney was sitting at her desk, casually playing her game. “Oh look, the liar is back. I thought you were too scared to show your face.” I marched over to my locker. It was empty. The black backpack I’d left in the corner was gone. “Where is my bag? Who took it?” I demanded. Courtney didn’t look up from her screen. “Bella took it, obviously. She has a thesis to write. And honestly, you deserve the broken lock. Saying you sold it when you were just hiding it? That’s low.” “She broke my lock and stole my property. That is grand theft, and you’re defending her?” “Oh, please. ‘Theft’? We’re roommates. She’s borrowing it. You’ll get it back when she’s done.” Megan peeked her head in. “Seriously, Izzy, don’t make a federal case out of this. Bella was desperate. If you hadn’t been so petty in the first place, none of this would have happened.” I pulled out my phone, taking high-definition photos and videos of the smashed locker. “If you all think breaking and entering is perfectly fine, I’ll keep this as evidence.” Courtney slammed her mouse down, glaring at me. “Delete that! What, are you going to call the cops on Bella now? You are unbelievably malicious.” “We’ll see who’s malicious when the police get here.” I turned and left. I didn’t call the police right away. In my past life, Bella had used this exact trick—crying to the campus security and the police that it was just a “roommate misunderstanding over a borrowed item,” and they let her off with a warning. This time, I was going to make sure she was exposed in front of everyone. I walked straight to the computer science department’s main lab. Today was the final day for seniors to format and submit their graduation capstones. The lab was packed with students. As I approached the entrance, I heard Bella’s voice. “Justin, thank you so much. If you hadn’t helped me carry this heavy thing over here, I never would have finished the formatting in time.” Justin stood beside her, scratching his head with a proud smile. “No problem. This Alienware is a beast, but the specs are incredible. Running the formatting software will be a breeze.” I pushed through the crowd. Resting on the desk in front of Bella was a heavy, dark-gray laptop. An Alienware. Except it wasn’t my laptop. It was a completely dead, gutted chassis I’d bought for ten dollars from a recycling yard yesterday. I had stuffed it with two heavy red bricks to match the weight, and the motherboard inside was nothing but melted copper and ash. When Bella saw me, she instinctively pulled the laptop closer to her chest. A flash of panic crossed her eyes, but she quickly forced herself to stand tall. “Izzy! What are you doing here?” “I’m telling you right now, I took this from your locker, and I’ll return it once I submit my thesis. Don’t even think about taking it back right now!” The surrounding students stopped working and turned to look. “Izzy, seriously, she’s already using it. Just let her finish.” “Yeah, tracking her down to the lab over a laptop? How embarrassing.” I crossed my arms, looking down at her. “Go ahead. Use it. I’ll just stand right here and watch.” Bella gritted her teeth and pressed the power button. Nothing. She pressed it again, harder this time. The screen remained pitch black. Not a single LED indicator blinked. “What… why isn’t it turning on?” Panic crept into her voice. She looked at Justin. Justin leaned in to check the power cord. “Maybe the battery’s completely drained. Plug it in.” Bella frantically plugged in the charger and hit the power button again. Still, absolute silence. She whipped her head up, glaring at me with raw hatred. “Isabel! What did you do to this laptop?” “What did I do? It was locked inside my locker. You smashed the lock and stole it. Now it won’t turn on and you’re blaming me?” I scoffed. Bella’s hands were shaking as she repeatedly slammed her palm onto the keyboard. “This is impossible! It’s a high-end gaming rig! It can’t just be dead! You did something to it to ruin my life!” Sweat poured down her face as she yanked her USB flash drive out of the port. “My thesis… my fellowship paper is on this flash drive! When I plugged it in, the light flashed once and went dead. You infected this computer with a virus to destroy my drive!” The lab erupted into whispers. “Oh my god, did Izzy seriously leave a malware trap in her locker?” “That’s not just petty, that’s criminal. Sabotaging someone’s career is sick.” Justin pointed a finger at me, shouting, “Isabel, this is too far! If Bella can’t graduate, you’re going to pay for this!” Just then, the glass doors of the computer lab were pushed open. A middle-aged couple stormed in, followed closely by a young woman holding a selfie stick with a phone streaming live. “Where is she? Where is that toxic little snake Isabel?” Every eye in the room landed on me. Bella’s father spotted me instantly. With a roar, he lunged forward, swinging his open hand at my face. I took a quick step to the side. His momentum carried him forward, and he nearly crashed into a desk. “Dad! You’re here!” Bella threw herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically. “Izzy put a virus on her laptop! My thesis is gone! I can’t graduate!” Her mother rushed up, screaming right in my face. “You classless piece of trash! You couldn’t get the fellowship so you had to ruin my daughter’s life? If you don’t recover her files right now, I swear to god I will tear you apart!” The influencer immediately pointed the camera at my face. “Hey guys, we are live on campus! This is the toxic roommate I was telling you about—the one who set a trap to destroy her roommate’s future. Keep sharing the stream, let’s make this viral! People like this shouldn’t be allowed in society!” The live chat on her screen was scrolling at lightning speed. “Dox her!” “Expel her immediately!” The commotion drew the attention of the department Dean and several faculty members, who came rushing into the lab. Mr. Conrad followed right behind the Dean, pointing at me. “Dean Henderson, this is Isabel. She has a history of hostile behavior in the dorms, and now she’s pulled this incredibly malicious stunt.” Dean Henderson’s face was dark. “Isabel, this is a disgrace to this university. I am officially revoking your honors graduate status, and we will be moving forward with your immediate expulsion.” Bella sniffled, her voice trembling. “Dean Henderson, expulsion isn’t enough. She ruined my life. I want her to get down on her knees and apologize to me in front of the entire student body!” “Yes! Kneel! You’re not leaving this room until you kneel!” Bella’s father grabbed a heavy metal lab chair, brandishing it threateningly. The crowd watched, waiting for my breakdown. When I didn’t move, Bella’s father raised the chair, ready to swing it at me. At that exact moment, the massive projector screen at the front of the lab flickered to life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514681”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The year of my most foolish, innocent love, I was sitting on the wooden bleachers by the basketball court, holding a cold drink for the boy I secretly adored. Travis sunk a clean three-pointer, then turned and blew a cocky whistle in my direction. My face burned hot. I was just about to stand up and hand him the bottle when a raspy, jarringly familiar voice crackled through my cheap wired earbuds. “Don’t go! I am you, ten years in the future. Tomorrow, Travis is going to get arrested for a gang assault and sent to juvenile hall!” “Open your SAT vocab book right now. If you don’t memorize two hundred words today, I will make you wish you’d never been born.” “After school tomorrow, go to the corner store with the sports book in the back. Bet on Germany beating Brazil, seven to one. It is your only ticket out of this dump.” I gasped, nearly dropping my phone. The voice, the sharp, cynical tone—it was legacy-grade me. The next second, Travis was jogging over, sweating and grinning, reaching for the bottle in my hand. I scrambled to unscrew the cap, lifted it to my lips, and took a massive gulp. “This is mine,” I blurted, wiping my mouth. “I have to study. I’m going for top of the class. See ya.” 01 The smug grin on Travis’s face froze. He swung his leg back and kicked the metal base of the hoop with a resounding “clang”. “Have you lost your damn mind, Maeve? Top of the class? Since when do you care about that?” His roar made me flinch, my neck burning with residual heat, but my feet obeyed the voice in my ears. I turned on my heel and walked toward the school gates. Travis caught up in three long strides, snatching my school lunch card right out of my hand. “Fine, go be a genius. I’m taking this. Courtney said she was hot today, so I’m going to the organic market to buy her a carton of those fancy rainier cherries to cool her down.” He caught the hurt, bewildered look on my face and let out a soft sneer from his nose. “Don’t look at me like some tragic housewife. I’m not trying to be mean, but with your grades, dreaming about being number one is just pathetic.” I stood there frozen, watching him walk away toward the convenience store with my last twenty dollars of lunch money for the month. Everything that had just happened felt too surreal. My head was spinning. Travis and I had been neighbors for over ten years. We grew up on the same block, sharing the same bruises and the same empty stomachs. When I was eight, he threw rocks at the stray dogs chasing me down the alley. When I was ten, he pulled me behind the stairs to hide from my dad’s drunken rages. Travis was the only person in the world I thought I could trust. But high school changed him. As hormones kicked in, I found myself secretly reading those cheap romance paperbacks from the dollar store, daydreaming. Naturally, I started doing what the girls in the books did—bringing Travis drinks, letting him take my lunch money, hoping he’d be the hero who saved me, who told me he’d protect me forever. Now, he was stealing my lunch money to buy imported fruit for a rich girl who had transferred here less than a month ago. I bit my lip, but the voice in my ear cut through the silence again. This time, it sounded cold, heavy with an exhausting, bone-deep weariness. “Do you hear him? That’s the boy you’ve spent your youth protecting.” “If you stay on this path, you won’t even make it to the final exams. You’ll get jumped by Travis’s rivals, drop out, and end up working twelve-hour shifts at a packaging plant just to pay off debts. You’ll ruin your life for him, and the second he gets out of prison, he’ll leave you to become Courtney’s personal bodyguard.” “Tomorrow afternoon, Courtney is going to pick a fight with some townies from the vocational school. She’ll run to Travis to play her knight in shining armor. To show off for her, Travis is going to take an iron pipe and shatter a boy’s spine.” “You won’t be able to bear seeing him get hurt. You’ll jump in to block a blow, take seven stitches to the back of your head, and miss your exams. His rivals will hound you day and night. You’ll drop out, leave town, and rot.” I shuddered, a phantom chill creeping up the back of my neck. The future me paused, her voice cracking slightly. “If you choose him again this time… we will never escape.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I clenched my jaw. Ever since I could remember, my only dream was to get out of this decaying neighborhood. I didn’t hesitate anymore. I broke into a run, darting through the narrow alleys smelling of sour garbage, back to the cramped, moldy rental apartment we called home. I pushed open the flimsy wooden door. The air inside was a suffocating mix of mildew and cheap, stale beer. My deadbeat father hadn’t been home in two weeks, probably off on another bender or hiding from bookies. My mother had packed her bags and run away with a trucker when I was six, unable to bear the endless cycle of debt collectors pounding on the door. Through the thin walls, I could hear the neighbors shouting over a card game. The bare bulb overhead flickered, buzzing like an angry insect. “You wanted him to be your family,” the future me said, her voice gentler now, but still unyielding. “But Travis only ever saw you as a loyal dog.” “Put away your useless teenage heartbreak. Go to the bed. Pull out the metal tin under the floorboards.” I got down on my hands and knees, sliding my arm under the bed to pull out a rusted Danish butter cookie tin. Inside was a crumpled stack of bills. Five hundred and thirty-one dollars. My entire savings for the next two months. “Take it. Tomorrow, you bet every single cent on Germany, seven to one.” “Now, open your AP prep book. Unit Two. Start memorizing.” The future me knew exactly what needed to be done. If that was the case, all I had to do was listen. I cracked open the textbook, grabbed a pen, and began writing on a scrap piece of paper. 02 The next morning, I stepped out of the alley with dark circles bruised under my eyes. Two hundred words. It had taken me until three in the morning to commit them all to memory. As I reached the corner of the street, a middle-aged woman in a faded, greasy floral housecoat stepped out to block my path. It was Travis’s mother, Mrs. Shaw. She was cracking sunflower seeds, spitting the shells onto the cracked asphalt, eyeing me up and down. “Maeve, sweetheart, grab Travis a breakfast burrito from the deli on your way to school. He’s growing, he needs his energy.” She stuck out her hand, expecting me to drop cash into it as I always did. For years, she had done this. Every morning, she found some excuse to make me spend my meager allowance on her son. She’d always tell me how my useless father didn’t care about me, how lucky I was to have Travis looking out for me, and how once I “joined their family,” I’d finally know what comfort felt like. My money was Travis’s money, in her eyes. I took a step back, dodging a flying seed shell. “I can’t, Mrs. Shaw. Travis took my lunch card yesterday. I don’t have a single cent on me.” Her expression soured instantly, her eyes narrowing into hostile slits. “No money? Go borrow some then! If you can’t even handle a simple task like this, how are you going to take care of my boy later? If it weren’t for my Travis keeping those street thugs off your back, you’d have been eaten alive by now!” I didn’t argue. I just walked past her toward the bus stop. Her entire family had come to view bleeding me dry as their god-given right. When I walked into the homeroom, I immediately noticed my desk had been messed with. My books were scattered everywhere. The AP Bio notebook I had spent all night organizing was currently folded in half, jammed under the leg of Travis’s desk to keep it from wobbling. Travis slung his backpack over his chair and saw me staring at the floor. He gave his desk a careless kick. “What? Courtney said the desk was rocking, so I just grabbed some scrap paper of yours to steady it.” On the cover of my notebook was a dark ink stain from where I’d fallen asleep working the night before. I tried to swallow the sharp sting in my chest. I knelt down, pulled the notebook out from under the desk leg with a violent yank, and threw it directly into the trash can. Travis’s face darkened instantly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy switchblade, and slammed it onto my desk with a loud “clack”. “What the hell is wrong with you today, Maeve? Who do you think you’re throwing attitude at?” “Keep this in your bag. The Dean is doing random locker sweeps for contraband at noon. You’re a good student; they won’t search you.” Looking at the cold silver gleam of the blade, my palms broke out in a cold sweat. The future me was entirely correct. This knife was the catalyst for the fight this afternoon. He didn’t give a damn if I got suspended or expelled for carrying it. I took a deep breath, picked up the knife, and shoved it right back into his jacket pocket. “No. Keep it yourself.” Travis froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me—always the quiet, obedient shadow—to actually refuse him. The whispers in the classroom died down as our classmates turned to look. Travis’s face flushed a violent red. He grabbed me by the collar of my hoodie, pulling me close as he hissed through his teeth. “Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me no? You’re a piece of trash with a junkie father. If I wasn’t the one keeping you safe, nobody in this town would even look at you!” He let go of me, kicked over the trash can containing my ruined notebook, and stormed out of the classroom. I smoothed down the crumpled collar of my hoodie, sat down, and opened my test prep. My pen scraped across the paper in sharp, deliberate strokes. I felt a quiet ache in my chest—not of longing, but the sickening realization that ten years of devotion had been given to a monster. 03 I spent the morning hours completely locked in, drowning out the world with schoolwork. When the lunch bell rang, I slipped away from the crowds and ran out of the school gates. Three blocks down was a dingy, smoke-filled convenience store that ran an underground sports book out of a back room. Inside, several middle-aged men in dirt-stained work shirts were shouting at a flickering TV screen. As a teenage girl in a school hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I nervously gripped the strap of my backpack, my palm slick against the damp roll of five hundred dollars in my pocket. The voice in my ear was calm, commanding. “Don’t hesitate. Walk to the counter. Put the money down.” I squeezed through the crowd of men and placed the cash on the scratched glass countertop. “I want to place a bet on the World Cup,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “Germany versus Brazil. Exact score: seven to one.” The bookie, a balding man with a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, looked up from his ledger and burst into a loud laugh. “You kidding me, kid?” “This is the semifinals. Brazil is the host country. Seven to one? You think this is a varsity team playing middle schoolers?” The men around the counter joined in, guffawing loudly. “High school girls are hilarious. Throwing away her lunch money on a dream.” “Go buy yourself some Starbucks, sweetie. You throw five hundred bucks on those odds, you’ll never see it again.” My neck burned under their mocking stares. But the words “This is your only ticket out of this dump” echoed in my head. I raised my chin and looked the bookie dead in the eye. “Five hundred dollars. On the exact score. Print the ticket.” Seeing I wouldn’t budge, the man shrugged and tapped the keys on his terminal. “Suit yourself. It’s your funeral. Don’t come back crying to me when you lose.” The machine spat out a small, thermal-printed slip of paper. I took it with trembling fingers, folded it neatly, and slid it into the zippered inner pocket of my hoodie, right against my chest. Back at school that afternoon, I paused at the corner of the second-floor hallway. In the shadow of the stairwell, two people were standing close. Courtney was wearing a short tennis skirt, her hair styled in perfect beach waves, holding an iced Starbucks drink. Travis was leaning against the lockers, all his usual anger gone, replaced by a desperate, eager-to-please grin. Courtney poked him in the chest with a manicured nail, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “That townie with the bleached hair from the vocational school was staring at me yesterday. It was so gross. Travis, I thought you said you ran things around here.” Travis immediately puffed out his chest, his eyes flashing. “That idiot is nothing. Don’t worry. During study hall, I’ll corner him behind the bleachers. I’ll break his legs.” Courtney giggled, covering her mouth. “You promise? Because if you chicken out, don’t bother talking to me again.” I watched them from the shadows, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach. The vocational kid hadn’t even done anything to her. Courtney was just bored. She wanted to see two dogs tear each other apart for her amusement. And Travis was more than happy to be her loyal hound. I drew back into the hallway, turning toward my classroom without a second glance. If Travis wanted to jump headfirst into hell, I wasn’t going to pull him back. 04 The last period of the day was study hall. Suddenly, a barrage of shouting and screaming erupted from the back of the campus. Near the fence line of the back fields, a crowd had gathered. I could hear the dull, heavy clangs of metal hitting metal. Students in my classroom rushed to the windows, pressing their faces against the glass. “Holy shit! Travis is fighting the vocational guys!” “Is he crazy? It’s five against one! He’s got an iron pipe!” I sat at my desk, my pen pausing for a fraction of a second. The voice in my ear came right on cue. “To impress Courtney, he’s going to shatter the leader’s spine.” “The police will be here in exactly three minutes. Courtney’s family driver is already waiting at the back gate to whisk her away.” I looked out the window. Sure enough, amidst the chaos, Courtney was clutching her skirt, jogging toward the back gate in her designer sneakers without looking back once. A sleek black Mercedes was waiting. She slipped into the back seat, and the car sped away. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew louder. The crowd on the field scattered instantly, boys running in every direction. Travis stood frozen, holding a blood-slicked iron pipe, looking around in a daze. He turned, realizing Courtney was already gone. When the police cruisers slammed to a halt at the edge of the field, panic finally registered on his face. He looked up at the school building and locked eyes with me standing by the second-floor window. His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He bolted toward the building, dragging the heavy pipe behind him, leaving a harsh scraping sound on the concrete. “Maeve! Come down here!” “Hide this for me! Hurry!” He wanted to hand me the weapon—the heavy iron pipe coated in someone else’s blood and bone. The voice in my ear screamed with terrifying authority. “Step back! Do not touch a single thing he has!” Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed up the stairwell. Travis kicked open the back door of the classroom, his hands dripping red. He thrust the pipe toward me. “Take it! Put it in your bag, now!” He was hyperventilating, his veins bulging, his eyes wide with animal terror. I looked at the weapon inches from my face and took two deliberate steps backward. Travis stared at me, his face twisting into a hideous snarl. “Why the fuck are you moving? Give me your jacket to wipe the blood! Hurry up!” He lunged forward to grab my clothes. I dodied him, my voice flat and cold. “You did this. You deal with the consequences. I’m not helping you.” The heavy thud of tactical boots echoed on the linoleum outside. Two officers burst through the door, tackling Travis to the floor before he could react. They pinned his face to the dusty tiles. The iron pipe clattered to the floor, rolling to a stop right by my sneakers. The lead officer picked it up, sealing it inside a clear plastic evidence bag. Travis thrashed under the officers’ weight, forcing his head up to glare at me. A venomous light flickered in his eyes. “Officer! It was her! She made me do it!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his lips. “Maeve told me to beat him up! That switchblade in my pocket is hers too! She forced me!” The classroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514680”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On graduation photo day, my girlfriend, Cherry, took over two hundred pictures of Chase, the campus golden boy. She was the president of the photography club. She knew exactly how to find the light, how to capture the perfect angle that made a person look like a movie star. Chase stood beneath the shade of the campus sycamores, flashing his easy, effortless smile. “Am I being too much of a pain?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Cherry kept her eyes glued to her camera, scrolling through the viewfinder with a softness in her voice I hadn’t heard in months. “Never. You’re impossible to take a bad photo of anyway. Honestly, it’s a pleasure.” But when it was my turn, Cherry barely even looked at me. She just raised the camera and clicked the shutter twice. “Done,” she said, letting the camera drop against her chest. I froze. “That’s it?” She frowned, her irritation immediate. “Jude, you’ve never been photogenic. Let’s not hold up the line.” I glanced down at the two photos she had taken on her digital display. In one, my eyes were half-closed, caught mid-blink. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches sliced directly across my face, cutting me in two. “Could you just try a few more?” I asked quietly. Instead of answering, she pulled out her phone and posted a thread on the campus student board: “Offering $20 for a student photographer to take a couple of quick, casual graduation photos of my boyfriend.” Half an hour later, a direct message popped up on my phone from an account with a default profile picture. I sent her my location, then hesitated before typing out a quick, self-deprecating warning: “Just so you know, I’m really not photogenic.” She replied almost instantly: “That usually just means the person behind the camera doesn’t know how to guide you.” When we finished shooting and she sent over the raw files, I could only stare. My chest tightened. It was the first time in my life I had ever looked at a photo of myself and thought, “Oh. I can actually look good.” I looked bright, natural, completely alive. But what felt even more surreal was the realization that this twenty-dollar photographer was miles ahead of the president of the university’s photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No Photoshop, no filters, no artificial editing. Just me, captured from different angles. In those shots, I was standing under the natural light, my eyes reflecting a warmth and confidence that felt entirely foreign to me. “Your features are actually great,” she texted. “You’ve just been trained to freeze up every time a lens is pointed at you.” Whenever Cherry used to take my picture, her voice would always carry this sharp, exasperated edge. “Can you please just smile normally?” After three or four quick snaps, she’d let the camera drop with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then she’d shake her head and mutter, “I don’t get how you can be so incredibly awkward in front of a camera.” She said it so often that it became my truth. Over time, I learned to shrink. Every time a lens was raised in my direction, my first instinct was to look down, to hide, to apologize in advance for ruining the shot. My phone buzzed, breaking the memory. My roommate had forwarded a screenshot of Chase’s Instagram feed. It was a beautifully curated grid of nine photos—all taken by Cherry. Chase was standing under the sycamores, bathed in a soft, golden-hour glow that perfectly highlighted his jawline. “Perks of having the photography club president as your personal shooter. Blessed.” The comments below were already piling up: “This looks like a cover shoot for the university prospectus.” “Literal main character energy, Chase.” Chase had replied with a humble-brag emoji: “Honestly, Cherry is just amazing at directing. Whenever I got stiff, she kept cracking jokes to make me laugh.” I zoomed in on his photos until the pixels blurred, a dull ache blooming behind my eyes. So Cherry did know how to guide someone. She knew exactly how to make a person feel comfortable and seen. She just had never cared enough to do it for me. Just then, a notification from the university’s official app popped up on my screen: “Seeking the New Face of Campus: Graduation Season Student Ambassador Search.” “Submit a portrait and a one-minute campus introduction video. The selected student will star in next year’s official recruitment campaign.” I swiped it away automatically. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Cherry had drilled it into my head too many times: I was the guy who belonged in the shadows, not the billboard. But a moment later, a text from my $20 photographer came through: “Did you see the ambassador call?” I stared at the screen. “Yeah, I saw it.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” Her reply was instant: “Trust me. You’re exactly the type.” A few seconds later, another message popped up: “An ambassador shouldn’t just be a pretty face on a poster.” “They need to be someone who makes people feel like they belong here.” I stared at those words, the silence of my room suddenly feeling very loud. Then, she sent over an attachment—a structured nine-day shooting schedule. “Days 1–3: Camera comfort exercises.” “Days 4–6: B-roll and campus scenes.” “Days 7–9: Editing and voiceover.” A sudden, quiet rebellion flared up inside me. I had actually loved photography once. But over the four years I’d spent with Cherry, her passive-aggressive critiques had slowly eroded that love, turning the camera into a weapon that made me feel small. I wanted to take that power back. The next afternoon, I went into the photography club room to gather some things. Cherry caught sight of the printed application form peaking out of my bag. She frowned. “Jude? Are you actually submitting for this?” I nodded. “Yeah.” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh, as if I’d just suggested I was running for president. “The student ambassador campaign? Jude, don’t let a silly disagreement over graduation photos make you do something impulsive.” Chase, who was lounging on the desk beside her, gave me a patronizing smile. “Hey, Jude, there’s no shame in working behind the scenes. Being the face of the school comes with a ton of pressure. If the final edit doesn’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” Normally, comments like that would have made me retreat into my shell, apologizing for even trying. But this time, I just quietly zipped my bag. “Whether it looks good is for the selection committee to decide,” I said. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Cherry’s expression hardened. “Why are you being so stubborn lately?” My phone buzzed in my hand. “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library,” the text from the photographer read. “We’ll do the first set. Don’t overthink your clothes or hair. Just show up as you are.” I stared down at the screen, letting out a quiet breath. Then I looked up, meeting Cherry’s eyes. “I found a photographer.” Cherry’s face flushed with a mix of surprise and sheer offense. “Fine,” she spat, her voice icy. “But without me, you won’t get a single shot worth looking at.” I didn’t bother replying. I just walked out and made my way to the library’s west entrance exactly at four. For years, my role in Cherry’s photography had been that of a glorified assistant. When she shot Chase, I was the one carrying her heavy lens bags, holding up the reflectors, handing them water, and guarding her equipment. I’d even step in to adjust Chase’s collar when it looked messy. Afterward, she’d make me transfer and catalog the raw files. But when it came to me, she wouldn’t even bother adjusting the white balance on her camera. Today, for the first time, I wasn’t the guy standing in the shadows. But my photographer didn’t immediately start shooting. She just gestured for me to stand near the stone steps. “Let your shoulders drop,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “Ignore the lens. Treat it like it’s just a piece of the scenery. Look at the wind in the trees, the bricks, whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my neck stiff with tension. She observed me for a second, then lowered her camera slightly. “Jude. The lens isn’t Cherry. It’s not here to judge you.” A sudden, sharp sting hit the back of my throat, and my eyes flared hot. I had to look up toward the sky, blinking rapidly to keep from breaking down right there. She didn’t rush me. She just stood there, waiting patiently in the quiet space she’d created for me to find my footing. We shot for about half an hour. She didn’t talk much, but her directions were incredibly clear and gentle. “Relax your hands. Don’t grip your jeans.” “Now look over at the maple on the left.” “Turn back toward me.” “Perfect. Keep that exact gaze.” For the first time in my life, I realized that being photographed didn’t have to feel like an interrogation. It could feel like breathing. The next morning, Cherry pinged me in the photography club group chat: “Jude, I need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Chase is shooting his promo material for the ambassador submission.” In the past, I would have dropped everything to say yes. This time, I typed back: “I can’t. I have my own shoot this afternoon.” The group chat fell completely silent. Within a minute, a direct message from Cherry flashed on my screen: “Are you seriously prioritizing some random twenty-dollar amateur over this? Chase’s submission is a major project for the club. Stop being childish and focus on what actually matters.” I stared at the words “what actually matters”. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. What mattered to her was Chase’s portfolio. My graduation memories, my aspirations, the tiny scrap of courage I had gathered to put myself out there—none of that had ever mattered. That afternoon, I went over to the science building to shoot some B-roll. Walking past the athletic field, I saw Cherry and Chase. Chase was standing in the center of the green grass, perfectly lit by the afternoon sun. Cherry was kneeling on the turf, adjusting her angles with obsessive care. “Take your time, Chase. Wait for the breeze before you turn your head.” “If you can’t force a smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more just like that.” Chase laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Am I being a total diva?” Cherry’s voice was incredibly tender. “Not at all. You’re a natural, Chase.” I stood by the edge of the running track, my fingers slowly curling into tight fists. She did know. She knew exactly how to coax warmth out of a person, how to soothe their insecurities. She just had never wanted to waste that grace on me. The photographer noticed my expression but didn’t pry. Instead, she stepped in front of me, gently holding up her camera. “We’re doing motion today,” she said. “Just walk naturally, look toward the lens, and tell me one reason why you love this university.” I looked down, feeling the old familiar knot form in my chest. “I don’t really know what to say.” “Then don’t think about the camera,” she replied softly. “Just talk to me.” I let the silence hang between us for a long time before I finally spoke. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said, looking at her rather than the black glass of the lens. “It makes me feel like… as long as you don’t stop, even the most ordinary person can slowly find their own strength.” She didn’t interrupt. When we finished, she held out the camera screen so I could watch the playback. The guy on the small display wasn’t polished like Chase, and he didn’t possess that practiced, effortless charm. But he was real. There was a quiet sincerity in his eyes that I had never seen before. That evening, some of the applicants began sharing snippets of their progress in the official submission group chat. My photographer had selected a still of me standing by the library’s side door. Almost immediately after she uploaded it, a message popped up: “Wait, is that Jude?” “Wow, this has so much depth. It looks like a movie still.” A quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. But before I could even process it, Cherry’s name appeared in the chat. “It’s just a mood shot,” she wrote. “Anyone can look decent if you hide their face in shadows and rely entirely on composition. The ambassador campaign is about real screen presence, not stylized portraits.” Chase chimed in right after her: “Totally. Video is a completely different beast than stills. Motion captures every awkward angle and forced expression.” I looked at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but the overwhelming panic that used to consume me didn’t come. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain myself or apologize. I simply typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” Later that night, a text arrived from my photographer with the plan for the next day. “Tomorrow we hit the senior wall. Don’t worry about being perfect. Just be you.” On the day of the deadline, I submitted the final cut. It was only a sixty-second video, but I must have watched it fifty times before hitting upload. It opened with the stone steps of the library’s west entrance. I was walking down, holding a stack of books, and then I turned to look at the camera. The middle segment drifted through the quiet corners of the campus—the track, the brick facades of the labs, the colorful, messy senior wall. And the final frame was me, standing by the university gates, saying: “I hope when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself, too.” My fingers were still trembling when the confirmation screen appeared. A text popped up from my photographer: “Beautifully done. Now, go get some sleep.” But sleep was impossible. For my entire life, I had hidden in the background, a shadow behind other people’s bright lights. This was the first time I had ever dared to let myself be seen. Three days later, the preliminary shortlist was announced. The admissions office published the top entries on the university’s official page. “1st Place: Jude” “2nd Place: Chase” I stared at my phone, the names blurring together. My roommate grabbed my shoulders, shaking me wild with excitement. “Jude! You’re number one! Holy crap, you actually beat Chase!” Before the reality of it could even sink in, the photography club group chat erupted. “Jude is first?” “Chase got second?” “How did Cherry’s submission lose?” Cherry remained silent for an hour. Finally, someone tagged her directly: “Pres, thoughts?” She only replied with one cold line: “The committee will likely review the authenticity of the submissions before making anything final.” My heart plummeted. She hadn’t congratulated me. She hadn’t asked how the shoots went, or who had helped me. Her immediate instinct was that my success had to be a lie. A moment later, Chase sent me a direct message: “Jude, seriously impressive stuff. But your photographer must be a professional, right? No offense, but getting that kind of production value for twenty bucks seems… a little too good to be true for a student.” Within minutes, a screenshot of his message was leaked into the main club chat, and the whispers turned into a wildfire. “Yeah, that quality is insane for twenty bucks.” “Did he hire an outside PR team to package him?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “The rules say it has to be organic student work.” “Does his photographer have connections in the admissions office?” It didn’t stop there. By evening, a thread went viral on the student forum: “Controversy over the new Student Ambassador results. Did certain applicants use professional agencies?” “Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar student hire to deliver agency-level cinematography?” The comments below grew progressively crueler. “Isn’t that Jude guy famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly he looks like an indie film lead? Please.” “Some people will do anything for fifteen minutes of fame.” I stared at the glowing screen, my hands turning cold. Then came Cherry’s text, cutting deeper than the strangers’ comments. “Who is this photographer, Jude? Did she bring in an outside crew? The ambassador campaign is representing our university’s integrity. Don’t use a school platform just to satisfy your ego.” I stared at the message, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. It took me a long time to type a response: “You really think I cheated?” She replied instantly: “You know better than anyone how you look in front of a camera, Jude.” The words felt like a physical blow, a needle driving straight into my chest. It didn’t matter how well I was captured. She would never believe that the boy in those frames was really me. To her, my beauty could only ever be an illusion. The next afternoon, my phone rang. It was an administrator from the admissions department. “Jude? We need you to come down to the communications office. An official complaint has been filed regarding your submission. There are allegations of professional agency involvement, heavy digital manipulation, and potential conflicts of interest. We need to verify the integrity of your raw footage.” I stood in the doorway of my dorm room, my mind going completely blank. My phone vibrated. A text from my photographer: “Take a deep breath. Don’t let them scare you. You didn’t magically become handsome overnight, Jude. You were just finally shot by someone who actually looked at you.” I stared at the words, and the feeling slowly began to return to my numb fingers. But a second later, Cherry texted again: “I’m coming with you. I can speak to your historical camera presence.” I gripped my phone and began the long walk to the administration building. My pocket buzzed relentlessly as the forum thread continued to gather traction. “Wait, is he actually being summoned?” “Oh shit, so there really is a scandal?” “We can’t have a fake represent our brand.” “Are we sure there isn’t something going on between him and the photographer?” I paused on the pavement, my breath catching. These accusations were filthier than any comment about my face. They weren’t just criticizing my photos anymore; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the communications office, the head of admissions, the faculty advisor for student affairs, and two PR staff members were waiting. On the table lay printed copies of the forum threads alongside screenshots of my video. The head of admissions looked up, his expression grave. “Jude, we’ve received a formal, signed complaint from a fellow student alleging that your submission was produced by an outside commercial agency. There are also concerns raised about potential inappropriate arrangements between you and the photographer. This campaign represents our university’s core values and academic integrity. We have to take these allegations seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical weight crushing my throat. I unlocked my phone and slid it across the desk. “I didn’t hire an agency. And there’s no editing trickery. The photographer was hired through a listing Cherry posted on the student board. I paid her twenty dollars.” The administrator reviewed the screenshots of the chat logs and the transaction receipt. He frowned, but the tension in the room didn’t fully dissipate. “Even so, Jude, the discrepancy between your past campus appearances and this video is striking. We need to understand how such a radical shift occurred.” Right then, there was a knock at the door, and Cherry walked in. The administrator looked up. “Cherry, as the president of the photography club, you’ve worked with Jude before. Can you speak to his usual screen presence?” I looked at her. In that fleeting second, a pathetic, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. She knew she had posted that ad. She knew those awful graduation photos were the result of her own carelessness. Surely, she would set the record straight. Cherry hesitated, looking at me then back at the committee. “Jude has good features,” she began. I felt a tiny fraction of the tension leave my shoulders. “But,” she continued, “his camera anxiety has always been severe. I’m not saying he actively cheated, but… the technical sophistication of this submission is simply not something a twenty-dollar student hire could pull off.” The office fell into a dead silence. She hadn’t outright called me a liar. But with those soft, calculated words, she had effectively validated every single rumor. I stared at her, the hurt hardening into something sharp and cold. “Cherry,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremble in my chest. “You wrote the post. You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw me to whoever would take twenty bucks. And now that someone actually took the time to do it right, you call it a lie.” I leaned in slightly. “You aren’t doubting the photographer. You just can’t accept that when someone else held the camera, I actually looked good. You can’t accept that I succeeded without you.” Cherry’s face turned completely pale. A shadow fell over the frosted glass of the door, and Chase stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Dr. Fletcher? May I say something?” He looked at me with a performative expression of concern. “I don’t want to attack Jude. But everyone in the department knows how intensely he used to dislike being on camera. I just worry… what if someone took advantage of his desire to prove himself, and used him as a puppet for their own agency showcase?” He left the sentence hanging, but the implication was clear. I stood there, a cold sweat breaking out across my back. The admissions head sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jude, until we can verify the source files, we will have to place a temporary hold on your first-place ranking. We need you to submit the raw footage, any behind-the-scenes material, and the full contact information of your photographer.” I walked out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me. A few students had gathered in the hallway, whispering as I passed. “A temporary hold? That basically means he’s guilty.” “Honestly, it’s just a school promo. Why go to such lengths?” When I reached the stairwell, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Jude, why did I just get a call from your student affairs advisor? It’s just a campus photo campaign. Don’t do anything reckless that might mess up your graduation.” “Mom,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t cheat.” There was a pause on the line, and then I heard my father’s voice in the background, sharp and impatient: “If he didn’t do anything wrong, why is the dean’s office investigating him?” I hung up, a cold, hollow ache settling deep into my bones. Cherry hurried down the stairs after me, catching my sleeve. “Jude, listen to me. The smartest thing you can do right now is shift the blame to the photographer. Just tell them you had no idea she was using an outside team. If you play the victim, the school won’t go hard on you.” I looked down at her hand on my arm, then up at her face. A dry, humorless laugh escaped me. “Oh, now you’re worried about me?” I asked. “But Cherry… you’re the one who hired her for twenty bucks.” Her hand slipped off my sleeve as she froze. My phone vibrated in my palm. “I’m downstairs at the administration building,” the message from the photographer said. “Don’t worry, Jude. I’m going to set this straight.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514679”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My first day out of prison. I received a call from my husband. Or rather, the eighteen-year-old version of him. “Mae, are we married now? Did I cry like a baby at our wedding?” The boy’s voice was bright, bubbling with anticipation, answering his own question before I could even find my voice: “I love you so much, I bet I was a total mess.” “Oh, and our brilliant Mae—you must be a world-class surgeon by now, right? And me? Am I a captain yet? Flying those massive commercial jets?” I looked down at my right hand, a landscape of jagged, angry red scars. Then I looked through the glass window of the hospital room, watching the man he had actually become gently feeding another woman soup. I smiled, though it felt like tearing open a fresh wound. “You sent me to prison,” I whispered into the receiver. “I can’t even hold a scalpel anymore. And you? You became a lying, cheating coward. Someone who makes me sick.” Before he could reply, I hung up. I remembered what he had told me when we were eighteen. Mae, no matter what happens, you have to keep moving forward. … My phone rang and vibrated relentlessly, buzzing in my palm like a dying insect. I shut it off entirely. Then, I knocked on the heavy wooden door of the private hospital room. The moment Chase saw me, his body went rigid. His first instinct was to step forward, shielding the woman in the bed. “Maeve,” he said, his voice tight. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough?” Behind him, the woman shrank back into the pillows, her pale face a picture of fragile innocence. Serena. His co-pilot. His constant shadow. “Maeve… I’m so sorry,” Serena whimpered. “It’s my fault. If I had just listened to you, you wouldn’t have gone to jail. I’m so, so sorry…” Hearing her say the word jail sent a sharp, phantom ache shooting through my right wrist. Every scar beneath my sleeve throbbed, reminding me of the horror of the past seven days. But it was over. Finally. “Have you signed the papers?” I asked. My voice was steadier than I expected. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He clearly hadn’t expected me to come here looking for a divorce. “Maeve, you’re the one who crossed the line. Why are you making a scene—” “Have you signed them?” I cut him off. Serena reached out, her fingers catching the hem of Chase’s sweater. “Chase, please don’t fight with her because of me.” Irritation flashed in Chase’s eyes. “Maeve, Serena and I are not what you think.” “I’m not signing those papers.” “Go home. Once I’m done here, I’ll come find you and we’ll talk.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Not what I think. Then what was it? A week ago, Serena had been scheduled for emergency abdominal surgery. I was her attending surgeon. I had given strict, explicit orders: no food, no liquids. NPO. Yet during the procedure, the moment the anesthesia began to take effect, she aspirated. She had secretly drank milk the night before. She choked, suffocated, and coded on the table. We brought her back, but she ended up in the ICU. When Chase found out she was in critical condition, he didn’t ask for an explanation. He didn’t care about medical records. He marched straight into my department, in front of all my colleagues, and slapped me across the face. The rumors about him and Serena had been swirling since the day she joined the airline. I had ignored them. We had been together since we were eighteen. High school sweethearts. I was utterly convinced he would never betray me. But reality was a cruel teacher. The very next day, a photo of them kissing in the back of a taxi went viral online. Chase had knelt before me, weeping, slapping his own face over and over, begging for forgiveness, swearing he was drunk. I believed him. I forgave him. But that slap in the hospital corridor? That was different. That was a physical declaration of where his loyalty lay. In that moment, years of repressed betrayal and humiliation erupted. I screamed at him like a wild animal. I stormed into Serena’s room and yanked her oxygen line right out of the wall. I wanted him to see what actual cruelty looked like. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated rage. And the consequences were immediate. Chase filed charges. Attempted murder. He used his connections to put his own wife in jail. Those seven days in that concrete hell became the defining nightmare of my life. And when I got out? A termination letter from the hospital was waiting for me. My career was dead. My right wrist was ruined, the nerves severed. And worst of all… A secret I never got to tell him. The child I lost, beaten out of me on the cold prison floor. My wrist flared with pain again. My face grew pale, and I looked at him with cold disgust. “If it’s not what I think, then what is it, Chase? Tell me. Explain it to me.” Chase opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Serena let out a soft, delicate cough. Instantly, Chase forgot about me. He spun around, leaning over her bed, his voice so tender it made my skin crawl. “Where does it hurt? Should I call the nurse?” His back was turned to me. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, draped in the light grey cashmere sweater I had handpicked for his birthday. In that second, a memory of eighteen-year-old Chase washed over me. He was wearing his faded high school varsity jacket, standing on the rooftop of the science building, looking at me with fierce devotion: “Mae, I swear to God, I will never let anyone hurt you. Not even myself.” I had teased him: “And what if you do?” His face had gone dead serious. “If I ever hurt you, Mae, you hit me. You scream at me. You get your revenge. And then you run. You run as far away from me as you can, and you never look back. But,” he hesitated, leaning in to press a quick, breathless kiss to my cheek, his ears turning bright red, “I’ll never give you a reason to run.” I had laughed, pushing him away. “If you ever do, Chase, I’ll make sure you can never find me again.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. I snapped back to the sterile light of the hospital room. There he was. Facing away from me, comforting another woman. The corners of my mouth curled into a faint smile. I reached into my bag, pulled out a fresh, signed copy of the divorce agreement, and placed it on the bedside table. “I printed another copy. Sign it and mail it to this address.” I placed a lawyer’s business card on top of the documents. “The division of assets is attached. If you have a problem with it, have your lawyer call mine.” Chase’s shoulders stiffened. He slowly turned around, his eyes dark and turbulent. “Maeve,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Are you seriously doing this? We’re going to end a ten-year marriage over a petty misunderstanding?” A petty misunderstanding. Seven days in a jail cell. A shattered wrist. A dead baby. And he called it a petty misunderstanding. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced a polite smile. “In all the years we’ve been together, Chase, when have I ever joked about something like this?” “Just sign it. It’s better for you. For me,” I glanced at Serena, who was watching us like a hawk, “and for her.” Chase’s expression hardened into ice. He grabbed the papers off the table and tore them into shreds. “Get that out of your head,” he spat, throwing the paper scraps onto the floor. “I’m not divorcing you.” “Your mental state is completely shot right now. Go home. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” Having delivered his ultimatum, he dismissed me entirely, turning back to Serena to adjust her blankets. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the shredded paper on the linoleum. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall. “Fine. I’ll see you in court.” I turned and walked out. The damp autumn air hit me as I stepped out of the lobby. I pulled out my phone and powered it on. Instantly, hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen. I scrolled through them numbly. They were all from an unknown number, but the words belonged to a boy I used to know. “Mae, you’re lying to me, right? There’s no way I’d ever betray you. I’d never put you in jail. I love you too much.” “Mae, please answer me. Don’t ignore me, I’m begging you.” The tone shifted from frantic disbelief to absolute devastation. “Mae, do you remember what I told you?” “If I ever hurt you, you have to get your revenge.” “And then, keep running. Don’t ever look back.” “Mae, I’m going to break up with eighteen-year-old you. I won’t let anyone hurt you—not even my future self. I promise.” A cold rain began to fall, blurring my vision. I couldn’t tell if it was the rain or my own tears. But the last message on the screen remained piercingly clear: “Mae. Keep running. Don’t look back.” Three days before our scheduled court date, the process server delivered the papers to Chase. That night, my phone rang. It was him. “Maeve, I’m not admitting to any affair,” he said, his voice cold and defensive. “Nothing happened between Serena and me, except for that one accidental kiss when I was drunk.” “Besides, Serena has a boyfriend. He’s one of my closest friends. Do you really think I’d sleep with my buddy’s girl?” “I’m not accepting these papers, and I’m sure as hell not showing up in court. Stop this childish drama.” “Captain, we’re cleared for pre-flight check,” a soft, familiar voice called out in the background. Chase’s tone softened instantly as he answered her, before returning to his cold, dismissive drawl with me. “I’m going to be busy flying for the next few days. I’ll come over and explain everything when I get back.” Before I could say a word, he hung up. I stared at the black screen and typed out a single message: “I’m not dropping the suit, Chase. I expect to see you there.” As expected, it went unanswered. Over the next three days, there was nothing but silence from his end. Instead, I saw Serena’s public social media updates. The first post: A selfie of her and Chase in the cockpit, cruising at thirty thousand feet. The caption read: “Always feel so safe sleeping when my Captain is at the controls.” The second post: A grid of gourmet food photos. The caption: “Just landed in Seattle. Big thanks to my Captain for the late-night room service delivery!” The third post: A close-up of a hand with scraped, bruised knuckles. I recognized those hands instantly—they belonged to Chase. Serena’s caption: “Some creep tried to hassle me at the terminal, and my Captain literally knocked three of his teeth out. My hero’s hand is hurt now. So much love for him!” And there was more. Chase, who despised shopping more than anything, had spent an entire day accompanying her through luxury boutiques in Seattle. Chase, who never touched sweet drinks, had stood in a trendy boba line for three hours just to share a cup with her. If this wasn’t betrayal, what was? I laughed aloud, the sound dissolving into quiet tears. I didn’t sleep at all that night. When morning came, I washed my face, tried to soothe my swollen eyes, and headed to the courthouse. By ten o’clock, there was still no sign of Chase. My lawyer, Mr. Kelly, sighed, tapping his pen against his briefcase. “Mrs. Callahan, do you want to postpone, or should we proceed?” My ears buzzed with a dull, ringing sound. I barely heard him. My eyes were locked onto a fresh notification on my phone. Serena had just posted again. It was a photo of an ultrasound sheet. Six weeks pregnant. The caption read: “An unexpected little miracle with my Captain. He says he loves babies and wants me to keep it a secret for now.” Below it, a small, gray text added: “Only visible to Maeve.” My face went entirely bloodless. My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. Why? Why did her baby get to grow safely inside her, while mine had been violently torn from me on a cold concrete floor? I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floorboards, and I stormed out of the courthouse. I drove straight to the hospital. By some cruel stroke of fate, I ran into Chase and Serena just as they were walking out of the lobby. I didn’t think. I lunged forward, putting every ounce of my strength into a slap that caught Chase squarely across the face. “Chase! Why couldn’t it have been you who died?” I screamed. The force of the blow turned his head to the side, his cheek blooming into a sharp red welt. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, and he took a step toward me. “Maeve, wait, let me explain. It’s not what you think. Serena and I—” “I don’t want to hear another word!” I shrieked, tears blinding me. “What lies are you going to tell me this time, Chase? Another accident? Do you even hear yourself? Aren’t you disgusted by your own voice? If you’re man enough to do it, why can’t you just admit it—” “Fine! I did it!” Chase roared, his patience snapping. “It’s exactly what you think, Maeve! Serena and I have done everything. We’ve held hands, we’ve kissed, we’ve slept together! More times than I can count!” The world seemed to tilt. The breath was knocked clean out of my lungs. Chase let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now? I don’t love you anymore, Maeve. I haven’t in a long time.” “Look at you. You’ve aged. You’re miserable. You’re exhausting. Standing next to you makes me feel sick to my stomach. I dread coming home to look at you. The only thing keeping me with you was obligation, and you just blew that to pieces.” “Are you satisfied? Do you have any more questions?” My lips parted, but my throat was too dry to produce a single syllable. Chase stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Seriously, Maeve. You’ve been with me since you were eighteen. You married me at twenty-two. You’re twenty-eight now. We’ve been together for ten years. Do you actually think you can survive without me? What are you going to do?” “Go back to being a surgeon? Look at your hand. And after you ripped out Serena’s oxygen line, what hospital in this country would ever hire a mentally unstable doctor like you?” “Why couldn’t you just look the other way? Why did you have to dig until you ruined everything for both of us?” “Chase, please, don’t talk to her like that,” Serena sobbed, stepping forward with tear-filled eyes. She looked at me, her expression a mask of performative guilt. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry at him. This is all my fault. I’m the shameless one…” “Serena, stay out of this,” Chase snapped, though his hand instinctively went to her waist. “No, it is my fault,” Serena cried, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maeve, please, I—ah!” I instinctively shook her off. It wasn’t a hard shove. But Serena stumbled backward, losing her footing and striking her side hard against the edge of a concrete planter. Within seconds, dark red blood began to seep through her light-colored trousers. “Serena!” Chase’s face drained of color. He whipped around, and before I could even register the movement, his hand collided violently with my cheek. The force of the slap sent me stumbling back. “Maeve! You’re a fucking lunatic!” I felt something warm trickling down the corner of my mouth. I stood frozen, my mind completely blank. Chase lunged forward, grabbing my right wrist in a vice grip, ready to scream at me again. But as his fingers dug into my flesh, he froze. Beneath his palm, he felt the thick, uneven ridges of scar tissue. He let go, staring at my wrist, his voice suddenly faltering. “Your hand… what happened to your hand?” Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the crumpled divorce agreement, and threw it in his face. “I hope I never see your face again as long as I live,” I whispered. Chase’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “You really want this?” “Yes.” He stared at me for what felt like an eternity, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and wounded pride. “Fine!” he spat. “You want a divorce? You got it. Let’s see how long you last on your own. Just don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” As we parted ways, two ghosts from a decade ago—eighteen-year-old Chase and eighteen-year-old Maeve—stood in the shadow of the corridor, watching the wreckage of their future.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514678”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I think I was born with a target on my back. Some people inherit blue eyes or a soft jaw; I inherited a severe, unrelenting paranoia. No historical despot had anything on my suspicions. When I was an infant, I refused to drink from any bottle unless it was warmed and tasted by my mother, terrified that anyone else would scald me. In elementary school, I spent entire semesters staring at the humming ceiling fan, certain the rusty bolt would give way and decapitate me. I ended up sitting on the floor beneath my desk, taking notes in the shadows. By middle school, the front door became my obsession. I was so convinced we’d be robbed that I would walk back from the bus stop six times every morning to check the deadbolt, arriving late to homeroom every single day. When the college application season finally ended, my parents sat me down in our sun-drenched living room. “The scores are in, the submissions are finalized,” my father said, letting out a sigh that sounded more like a plea. “Can you finally breathe now, Nicole?” But my chest was still tight. “The housekeeper’s daughter is the same age as me,” I told them, my voice flat. “Her scores are three hundred points lower. She’s going to hack my portal and change my choices.” For eighteen years, my parents had been patient. But that afternoon, the masks of gentle tolerance slipped. Martha, our housekeeper of a decade, burst into thick, ragged tears. “If Miss Nicole doesn’t trust us, we’ll pack our things and go,” she sobbed, clutching her apron. “I thought ten years of devotion meant we were family. I guess a servant is always just a servant. We might be poor, Robert, but we aren’t criminals!” My parents spent an hour soothing Martha, begging her to stay. I watched them, utterly cold. I was not moved. … Exactly sixty seconds before the application portal closed, I logged in. And there it was. My first-choice application to Princeton had been changed to Pinecrest Online—a non-accredited digital degree mill. With my heart hammering a steady, familiar rhythm, I spent the final thirty seconds changing it back to Princeton, saving the confirmation, and shutting the screen. For eighteen years, I had rehearsed my own demise. Walking down the street, I calculated the falling velocity of billboards and mapped out exits in every restaurant. When someone handed me a drink, my mind automatically cataloged the tasteless toxins that could fit in a dropper. Before bed, I checked the deadbolts, the window latches, and the stove’s gas valves. Under my nightstand sat a heavy emergency hammer and a roll of heavy-duty medical tape. They called it a sickness. I called it emergency preparedness. And today, the protocol had saved me. In the living room, my parents were laughing with Martha. They were watching a sitcom, the blue light of the television washing over them. Martha’s daughter, Charlotte, sat on the edge of the sofa, staring down at her phone. There was a faint, smug curve to her lips that she couldn’t quite hide. “Mom. Dad,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a cold draft. The laughter died. My father turned, his face still holding the remnants of a smile. “What is it, Nicole? Still anxious about the acceptance letters?” I walked over and stood directly in front of the television, blocking their view. My eyes locked onto Charlotte. “My application was altered.” The air in the room instantly curdled. My father’s smile froze. “What… what do you mean?” “I mean exactly what I said. And the person responsible knows exactly who they are.” I let the words hang, my gaze scraping across Charlotte’s face. Charlotte’s head snapped up. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and performative shock. “Nicole, what is your problem?” she cried, her voice cracking. “Your application got messed up and you’re looking at me? Are you seriously accusing me?” “Who else would it be?” I snapped back. “You!” Charlotte stood up, her eyes immediately welling with tears. “I know you’ve hated me since the day I got here. You made me sleep in the basement room because you said my presence was bad luck for your exams. I did it. I didn’t complain because I knew you were stressed. But your college future? How could you think I’d do something so horrible?” She bit her lip, lowering her head. “Just because my scores aren’t as good as yours doesn’t mean I’m a monster. You have no idea how much I’ve admired you, Nicole. You have this beautiful house, parents who adore you, a perfect future…” It was a masterclass in pity. And right on cue, my mother’s face softened. She stepped forward, taking Charlotte’s hands in hers. “Charlotte, sweetie, don’t cry. Nicole… she just gets these ideas in her head. Don’t take it to heart.” My father’s face went from pale to a deep, furious crimson. He slammed his hand down on the coffee table, rattling the porcelain teacups. “Nicole Max! Have you lost your mind? Is this your paranoia talking again?” “I am completely sane.” “Sane?!” His voice shook with rage as he pointed a finger at me. “Martha has been with this family since you were in diapers! She practically raised you—she’s been more of a mother to you than anyone! And Charlotte has been nothing but polite and sweet since she came to stay with us. Why would she hurt you? What is wrong with your head?!” Martha hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet, miserable sobs. “Mr. Max, Mrs. Max, it’s my fault,” she whimpered. “I shouldn’t have brought Charlotte here. I didn’t realize how much Nicole disliked us. We should just go.” She wiped her eyes, pulling Charlotte by the arm. “Come on, Charlotte. We’re leaving. We can’t stay here and cause any more trouble for this family…” My mother sighed, turning to me with a look of profound exhaustion and disappointment. “Nicole, Martha has been a part of this household for ten years. They are not those kinds of people. Please, just stop this.” Ten years. A decade is a heavy weight. Martha had transformed from a quiet maid into an indispensable fixture of our lives. She was diligent, warm, and loyal. So when she asked a month ago if Charlotte could stay with us to study for her finals, my parents hadn’t hesitated. I was the only one who fought it. I didn’t want a stranger under our roof. It violated my security. On the day Charlotte arrived, I blocked the doorway and told her she wasn’t welcome. It wasn’t until Martha called my father in tears, and he roared at me over the phone, that I let her in. I demanded she be moved to the basement guest room on her very first night, claiming her energy would disrupt my exam focus. My mother called me cruel. I simply stayed silent. Now, looking at the three of them acting like a unified family unit while I stood on the outside, I felt a grim amusement. “Why should I apologize?” I asked. “I wouldn’t sabotage myself. My parents wouldn’t sabotage me. That leaves only one variable.” “Enough!” my father erupted. “You are locked in your room starting now. No phone, no computer. You will stay in there until you’ve cleared your head and learned how to apologize!” He grabbed my arm, shoved me into my bedroom, and slammed the door. The sound of the deadbolt clicking shut echoed through the hallway. Behind the wood, I could hear his muffled shouts, my mother’s soft sighs, and the fading whimpers of Martha and Charlotte. I leaned against the door. The room was dim, illuminated only by a single overhead light. Did they really think this would break me? Did they think taking my primary phone and laptop left me defenseless? How naive. A true paranoid never relies on a single line of defense. We don’t trust hearts, and we certainly don’t trust blood. I looked up. The lens of a micro-camera stared down from the top of my bookshelf, aimed perfectly at the door. Inside the hollow base of my desk lamp, a tiny digital recorder was capturing every vibration from the living room. Behind the grill of the air vent, another lens kept watch. Martha and her daughter thought they had played a flawless hand. They had no idea that I had wired this entire house years ago. There was an eye in every corner, watching them sleep, watching them scheme. I walked to my desk, pulled out the bottom drawer, and tapped the hidden panel at the back. It popped open to reveal a backup burner phone and a set of locksmith tools. I powered the phone on. Full signal. I didn’t call the police. Not yet. Right now, everyone thought I was the madwoman. I needed to wait for the perfect moment to rip away their masks. The days of my confinement were quiet. The calm before the storm. My parents truly kept me isolated. At mealtimes, my mother would bring a tray to my door, watching me closely to ensure I ate, likely fearing a hunger strike. I was completely cooperative. I ate everything she brought, as long as I saw her open the packaging or scoop it directly from the pot. But one afternoon, Martha appeared at the door holding a bowl of slow-simmered, expensive imported bird’s nest supplement, a sweet, maternal smile plastered on her face. “Nicole, sweetheart, don’t be angry with your parents,” she cooed. “I made this broth especially for you. Drink some, okay?” The smell of the broth made my stomach churn. “Take it away,” I said. Martha’s smile faltered. “Nicole, what’s wrong? Are you still upset with me?” “Take. It. Away,” I repeated, my voice devoid of warmth. “I don’t know what you put in it.” Martha’s face turned a violent, blotchy red. Her hands trembled so hard the broth spilled over the rim. My mother walked in just in time to see this. Her lips trembled with rage. “Nicole! You are absolutely impossible!” She snatched the bowl from Martha’s hand and slammed it onto the floor. “Fine! We’re all trying to poison you! Are you happy now?” She dragged a weeping Martha away. I watched the puddle of broth seep into the hardwood without a shred of guilt. In my world, there was no such thing as overreacting. There was only survival. To them, my behavior was proof that my illness had worsened. Their pity for Martha and Charlotte grew, and with it, a desperate need to make amends. That guilt found its outlet soon enough. Charlotte received her acceptance letter from a local state college. To make up for the “abuse” she had suffered under our roof, my parents decided to throw her a lavish graduation party on our lawn. On the day of the party, my mother dragged me out of my room and forced me into a brand-new white silk dress. “We have guests coming,” she warned, her grip tight on my wrist. “You will not embarrass this family. Do you understand?” I looked at my blank reflection in the mirror and nodded. Of course I wouldn’t embarrass them. The real show was about to start. The lawn was packed with local socialites, family friends, and distant relatives. Everyone gathered around Charlotte, who was wearing a designer gown my mother had bought her—the exact dress I had asked for on my last birthday. She floated through the crowd like a peacock, drinking in the compliments. “The housekeeper’s girl seems so much more grounded than Nicole,” I heard a neighbor whisper. “I know. I heard Nicole is completely unhinged now. Thinks everyone is out to get her.” “Shh, her parents are right there. Though honestly, they seem to prefer Charlotte anyway.” I sat in the shadow of the veranda, sipping ice water and watching the spectacle. Before long, Charlotte detached herself from a group of guests and walked toward me, holding two glasses of Cabernet. “Nicole,” she said, stopping in front of my chair. Her smile was sharp, victorious. “Thank you for coming to my party. I know this must be hard for you, but sometimes we just have to move on, right?” She offered me one of the glasses, holding herself like a queen showing mercy to a peasant. “A toast? To show there’s no hard feelings.” I didn’t reach for the glass. Her smile tightened as the surrounding guests began to quiet down, sensing the tension. “What’s the matter, Nicole? Can’t even raise a glass for me?” she asked, her voice dropping into a fragile, wounded register.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514677”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My parents drove three hours to spend Thanksgiving with us. I welcomed them at the door, my heart full of warmth, only for my wife, Beth, to greet them with a polite, distant, “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Shepard.” My parents’ joyful smiles instantly froze. I couldn’t even count how many times we had stood in this exact, suffocating silence. We had been married for five years, and in all that time, she had only called them “Mom” and “Dad” once. That was during our wedding vows, when the cameras were rolling and the pressure was on. After that, she either avoided addressing them altogether or fell back on those stiff, formal titles. Beth offered a weak, apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, Jackie. It’s just a habit. I keep forgetting to adjust.” My smile faded. She had called her ex-husband’s parents “Mom” and “Dad” for three years. We had been married for five, and she still couldn’t accept my family. For the past three years, she had continued to look after her ex-husband’s parents. She visited them, called them her real family, and treated them with a warmth she never showed my parents. She constantly “forgot” my parents’ dietary restrictions, buying them expensive seafood dinners they couldn’t eat because of their allergies. And whenever she gave my parents gifts, they were always cheap, thoughtless afterthoughts—often duplicates of the high-end presents she carefully curated for her ex’s family. My mother swallowed her disappointment, trying to rescue the heavy atmosphere. She lifted an insulated carrier. “It’s okay, sweetie. Look, I made your favorite homemade pumpkin rolls and kept them warm the whole drive. I made sure to bring the flavors both of you love.” I reached out and gently took my mother’s hand. No. I wasn’t going to let it go this time. … Beth assumed the tension would blow over, just like it always did. She relaxed, turning on her heel to head to the living room to watch TV. I stepped in front of her, blocking her path. I needed an answer. “Is it really that hard for you to call them Mom and Dad?” I asked, my voice flat. Beth’s brows knit together. Perhaps she wanted to avoid a scene in front of my parents, or perhaps she felt a fleeting pang of guilt. With agonizing effort, she looked at my parents and forced out, “Mom… Dad.” It sounded hollow. Empty. When you haven’t actually accepted someone into your heart, calling them your parents feels like a performance. It makes you feel like a fraud. Seeing the look on my face, Beth softened her tone. “Jackie, I honestly just didn’t think. It was a slip of the tongue.” An endless cycle of apologies, with zero change. What was the point of an apology like that? My mind drifted back to our wedding day. During the family reception, when it was time to toast our parents, Beth had suddenly gone rigid. I didn’t know what she was thinking then. I only remembered how eagerly I had knelt before her parents, handing them their glasses and calling them Mom and Dad with a genuine smile. But when Beth held the glass out to my parents, she hesitated for what felt like an eternity. When she finally spoke, the words were a barely audible whisper. Even then, she had to fight herself to say it. She had never truly accepted my parents as her family. To this day, her phone didn’t even have them saved under names—just their bare phone numbers. Whenever my mother called her, Beth never picked up. If I asked, she was always “too busy.” If I pressed further, she claimed she thought it was a spam call. They say a daughter-in-law is supposed to be like a second daughter. But to Beth, my parents ranked lower than the local delivery guy. My family had a massive group chat on iMessage. It was a typical close-knit family thread where we shared daily updates, planned holidays, and kept in touch. I had invited her to join dozens of times. She always found a way to ignore the invite. “Oh, I forgot. Send it again, Jackie,” she would say. But when I sent it again, she would let the invitation expire. Sometimes my aunts and uncles would ask me, “Why isn’t Beth in the family chat?” I never knew what to say. I would swallow my embarrassment and lie, telling them she was buried under work and would join next time. But the truth was simple. She didn’t want to be a part of my family. She had already chosen her family long ago, and she had no intention of severing those ties, even after her divorce. A sudden, sharp sting pricked the corners of my eyes. Some things should have been obvious to me a long time ago. My parents stayed for barely an hour before quietly making their excuses to leave, squeezing my shoulder and telling me to take care of myself. After they left, I sent Beth one more invitation to the family group chat. Twenty-four hours went by. The invitation remained pending. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I watched her phone screen light up on the nightstand. I picked it up and bypassed the lock screen. Pinned to the top of her messages were three group chats. One was with her own parents. The other was with her ex-husband, Derek, and his parents. The messages in that chat jumped constantly, filled with inside jokes, photos, and casual updates. They bantered and laughed as if they were still a perfect, unbroken family. I lay awake in the dark for the rest of the night. Two weeks later, we attended a family dinner at her parents’ house. The moment I saw her mother and father, I smiled politely and said, “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lawson.” I watched the color drain from Beth’s face, inch by inch. The moment we stepped out of her parents’ house and got into the car, she exploded. “Did you really have to do that?” she yelled, her chest heaving with rage. “I made a simple mistake with your parents, and you retaliated by humiliating mine? Did you even consider how they would feel?” I wrenched my hands free from her grip, my skin red where she had grabbed me. “Yes, I had to! If you’re so worried about your parents’ feelings, what about mine? What about my parents? I gave you five years, Beth. Five years. Not five days, not five weeks, not five months.” Those excuses of hers were a joke, and she was the only one buying them. She wasn’t stupid. Nobody “forgets” who their in-laws are for half a decade. In the middle of our shouting match, Beth’s phone rang loudly. Instantly, her expression transformed. The anger vanished, replaced by an urgent, tender concern. She swiped the screen and answered with practiced warmth. “Mom? What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end didn’t belong to her mother. It was Derek’s mother. Beth nodded rapidly, her face pale. “Don’t worry, I’m coming right now. No, it’s no trouble at all. Your emergencies are my emergencies.” Without a single glance at me, completely ignoring the fight we were in the middle of, she turned and walked away to hail a cab. I stood under the streetlights, my fingernails biting deep into my palms. Beth always put them first. Our holidays were constantly interrupted, our plans canceled, our lives put on hold for whatever minor crisis Derek’s family was having. Even during our most intimate moments, she would ruin it. Once, right in the middle of making love, she had abruptly pulled away and sat up. “I have to go. Mom and Dad need me. Something happened.” I had sat there in our dark bedroom, naked and frozen, assuming she meant her own parents. I had told her to go, telling her I understood. Only later did I find out that the “Mom and Dad” she rushed to rescue were Derek’s parents. The bitterness in my chest bloomed into a dull, throbbing ache. Just last month, when my own mother was hospitalized, I had to go out of town on an urgent business trip. I had begged Beth to look after her. Beth had promised she would. But when I called the hospital, my mother sounded incredibly lonely. Later, when I returned and checked the hospital’s security footage, I discovered Beth had stayed for less than ten minutes. During those ten minutes, she had stared at her phone, barely acknowledging my mother. My mother, weak and pale in her hospital bed, had desperately tried to start a conversation. “Beth, would you like some fruit?” “Beth, are you very busy at work?” Beth hadn’t even noticed when my mother’s IV bag ran empty. It was my mother who had to painfully stretch her arm across the bed to press the call button herself. That night, when I visited, my mother had looked at me with silent, tearful eyes. Parents can always sense when they are despised. My mother didn’t understand what she had done to deserve her daughter-in-law’s coldness. She blamed herself, worrying she was a burden to our marriage. No matter how much I asked, she never uttered a single word of complaint to me. It was my fault. I was weak. I had allowed my parents to endure five years of quiet humiliation and neglect. When Derek left the country to chase his artistic dreams in Europe, Beth had stepped in to act as his proxy, taking care of his parents as if she were their dutiful daughter-in-law. It was laughable. What about me? What about my family? I looked down at the organic root extracts and Epsom salts sitting on our kitchen counter. Her father had chronic back pain, and her mother suffered from severe joint inflammation. For five years, whenever they came over, they dumped these raw ingredients on me. “You’re young and strong, Jackie. You can grind these down easily. We’re too old for this.” “We don’t trust store-bought rubs. It’s better when you hand-mix them. We know we can trust you to do it right.” Beth had watched me work, offering a patronizing smirk. “Well, at least you’re getting good at it.” My eyes filled with tears as I looked at the rough calluses on my palms, the dry skin that always snagged on the threads of my clothes. She poured all her energy into taking care of her ex’s parents, while shifting the burden of her own parents’ care onto my shoulders. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was a voice message from my mother. The background noise in the audio was deafening—sirens, shouting, horns honking. I had to press the phone tight against my ear to hear her trembling voice. “Jackie… I got into a car accident. A woman backed into me, and now she’s screaming at me, making a huge scene…” Forgetting about Beth, forgetting about the herbs, I grabbed my keys and ran out the door. When I arrived at the scene, I immediately pushed through the crowd and shielded my mother behind my back. The woman standing opposite her had a face I recognized all too well. She had her hands on her hips, her eyes rimmed with red. “She’s the one who hit me!” the woman wailed, pointing a shaking finger at my mother. “You’re only bullying me because my son is in Europe! I was just walking across the parking lot, and she ran right into me!” Seeing that another shouting match was about to start, the police officers stepped in and escorted everyone to the local precinct. Half an hour later, the heavy glass doors of the station flew open. Beth’s frantic voice echoed through the lobby. “Mom!” My mother turned around, thinking her daughter-in-law had come to support her, and instinctively took a step forward. But Beth ran straight past her. She threw her arms around Derek’s mother, checking her frantically from head to toe. “Mom, are you hurt? Tell me where it hurts. I want to see who dared to touch you.” My mother froze, her hand still half-raised in the air. Beth didn’t even notice. When she finally looked up and saw us sitting across the room, a flicker of panic crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it. We were brought into the mediation room. Looking at Beth, my mother seemed to finally understand why her daughter-in-law had never been able to call her “Mom.” Her fingers began to tremble. For five years, she had swallowed her pride, treating Beth like her own daughter, thinking she just needed time. Now, the brutal truth was laid bare. The officers showed us the security footage. The angle was awkward, and it was hard to tell who was at fault in the crowded parking lot. My mother looked exhausted and deeply shaken. I wanted nothing more than to get her out of that toxic room, so I agreed to a mutual settlement and signed the paperwork. Beth tried to say something to me, but Derek’s mother pulled her away, and Beth chose to go with her. “Mom, let’s get you to a doctor to make sure you’re okay,” Beth whispered tenderly as they walked out. The only thing left for my mother and me was the smell of exhaust fumes in the cold air. I wrapped my arms around my mother, my tears spilling onto her shoulder. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I was so stupid.” I had been so naive. When we got married, I had hidden the depth of Beth’s attachment to her ex-husband from my parents. I knew they would worry, that their old-school values would make them skeptical of a marriage with so much baggage. But I had thrown myself into the fire for love. I had trusted Beth. I believed she was different. I should have listened to my parents. My father, who had arrived late, stood in the corner of the room. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “You foolish boy,” he said quietly. “How could you keep something like this from us?” But when they saw the state I was in, my parents didn’t scold me further. They stood by me, united. “Get a divorce,” my father said, his voice firm. “This isn’t a marriage. You need to end this.” Sometimes, the wrong choices in life simply have to be corrected. I was planning to go find Beth to hand her the papers, but she came to our house first. Before I could even speak, she barged through the door. She looked at my mother, her mouth opening and closing, still unable to utter the word “Mom.” “Did… did either of you pick up an antique gold locket at the police station?” Beth demanded, her voice breathless with anxiety. “It was a family heirloom Derek gave her. Mrs. Howard is losing her mind. She can’t lose that locket.” My mother’s face flushed with anger. “No! If we had found it, we would have handed it to the police. Why didn’t she mention it while we were at the station?” Beth ignored the explanation. “She says it went missing right after the accident. Jackie, you can be mad at me all you want, but you can’t let your parents take out their anger on an innocent old lady.” Take out their anger. Steal. She had already branded my parents as thieves in her mind. I stepped forward and violently shoved Beth back. “Enough! You have zero proof, and you’re coming into my house accusing my mother of theft? Have you completely lost your mind, Beth? My mother didn’t even know who that woman was when the accident happened!” But Beth was blinded by her desperate need to please her ex’s family. “Mrs. Howard saw your mother’s hand brushing against her purse! Jackie… I know your parents come from a small town and aren’t used to nice things, but please, just don’t keep what isn’t yours.” The ugly truth finally slipped out. She had always looked down on us. She thought of herself as a sophisticated city girl, secretly harboring contempt for my working-class, small-town parents. It was pathetic. My mother stood up straight, her spine rigid. She marched over to the entryway, grabbed her purse from the hook, and dumped its contents onto the floor. “I didn’t take a damn thing!” she cried, her voice cracking with humiliation. “If you think I stole it, call the police and have them drag me to jail!” Beth immediately dropped to her knees, frantically searching through the spilled contents. At that moment, her phone rang. It was Derek, calling from Europe. His voice leaked through the speaker, frantic and tearful. “Beth, that locket was the last thing my father bought for my mother before he passed. Please, I beg you, help her find it.” Beth’s expression turned fierce. “I’ll find it, Derek. I promise.” She hung up and glared at my parents. Finally, those words she had withheld for five years came spilling out of her mouth like a weapon. “Dad! Mom! Just give it back! Stop hiding it, or I’m going to start tearing this house apart to find it!” My mother gasped, clutching her chest, nearly fainting from the sheer shock of the accusation. My father’s hands shook with rage. “Beth Lawson,” my father growled. “You’ve looked down on our family from the day you met us, and we stayed quiet for Jackie’s sake. But we will not let you drag our names through the dirt. We don’t want her cheap jewelry!” I grabbed Beth by the arm, pulling her back. “What do you think you’re doing? We told you, we don’t have it!” But Beth ignored me. She pulled out her phone and made a call. Within ten minutes, three of her friends showed up at our door. “Help me search,” Beth commanded them. “Check every room. Don’t leave a single corner untouched.” She had completely lost her mind. This house was my home. Every corner of it was filled with the quiet, happy memories I had tried so hard to build. Beth had no right to do this. She had no right to violate my sanctuary. I tried to block her friends from entering the hallway. “Get out! This is my house, Beth! You have no right to do this!” She grabbed me, pinning my arms to my sides. “Jackie, please. I promise I’ll put everything back exactly how it was. This locket is everything to Derek. Either you tell your parents to hand it over, or I find it myself.” I stared at her, my chest burning with a rage so hot it choked me. “Who do you think we are? Who would steal a cheap locket? We told you, we didn’t take it!” But Beth completely stripped us of our dignity. Her friends began tearing the house apart, dumping drawers, throwing couch cushions, and ransacking our bedrooms. My parents stood in the corner, paralyzed with humiliation. Suddenly, one of Beth’s friends pulled a velvet jewelry box from my mother’s dresser. He opened it and snorted. “Wow. Look at this garbage. Every single piece in here is a cheap knockoff.” My heart stopped. I looked at the box. It contained the jewelry Beth had gifted my mother for birthdays and holidays over the years. They were fakes. Cheap, plastic costume jewelry. Yet every single holiday, I had spent thousands of dollars buying genuine designer pieces for her parents. Her utter contempt for my family was laid bare in that velvet box. With a surge of adrenaline, I ripped myself out of Beth’s grip. I stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “You’re going to pay for this, Beth,” I whispered. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Yes, hello. I’d like to report a home invasion and illegal search.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514676”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day my dad walked out on us for another woman, my mom bought a pig. The pig was named Joy. I was also named Joy. Whenever she was angry, she would grab a wooden switch, go to the pen, and whip the pig. “Joy, why aren’t you dead yet?” I would squat nearby, listening to the thud of the wood hitting flesh, unable to tell which Joy she was screaming at. When she was tired of beating it, she would scoop out the exact same amount of food for the pig and me. “Good girl, Joy. As long as you eat more and get fat, Mommy will be happy.” To make her happy, I ate uncontrollably until I hit 250 pounds. But then, my mom only looked at me with disgust. “Look at you. What company would ever hire you looking like this? Are you planning to just be a couch potato and leach off me forever?” Later, my mukbang live streams blew up, and I started making ten grand a month. But my mom called just to curse at me. “You don’t care about your reputation, but I care about mine! You’re as fat as a pig, and you’re showing your face to the whole world? Aren’t you embarrassed?” I hid my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis under my pillow. Mom, I’m using my life to buy your approval. Will that finally be enough?

Maria, the office cleaning lady, asked me with concern, “Sweetie, you’re throwing up so much blood. You should go to the hospital.” I waved my hand, using the sink to push myself up. Outside, the voices from the cubicles dropped slightly. “Is she serious? Killing herself just for some internet money.” “Well, she makes more in one stream than we do in half a month.” “Still, it’s terrifying. I heard her throwing up just now. It sounded like a pig being slaughtered.” “She must have been a pig in her past life. She eats literally anything.” Just then, my phone rang. To my surprise, it was my mom. “I’m at the bus station. Where do you live?” I froze. It had been three years. This was the first time she had ever come to see me. “Mom, stay there. I’m coming to get you right now.” At the station exit, my mom was standing there. “Mom, let’s go. I’ll take you home.” I picked up her heavy luggage and walked her back to my place. She stood in the middle of my living room, looking around. Her eyes locked onto the empty takeout containers I hadn’t had time to throw away. “Is this what you eat every day?” “Sometimes I’m just too busy to cook…” “You make so much money, yet you live in a dump like this?” I choked up a bit. “Mom, this apartment is fifteen hundred a month. It’s actually pretty nice…” “Nice? My foot,” she interrupted. “On the bus ride here, I googled you. I saw your live stream.” She didn’t look at me. She just stared out the window. “All those people watching you stuff your face with tons of food. You look ridiculous.” “The folks back home saw it too. If you’re not embarrassed, I am.” I stood by the kitchen door, still holding the fresh groceries I had bought for her. “Mom, I do this to make a living…” “A living?” She whipped her head around. “What happens when you eat yourself to death?” “If you collapse, who’s going to take care of me when I’m old? You’re my only daughter. Who else can I rely on?” “Richard’s eldest son just got into a prep school, and he has another baby now. Both of them are more successful than you’ll ever be!” She sat on the couch and wiped her face. “Fine. I’m hungry. Go make dinner.” Fried fish, garlic shrimp, and chicken soup—I cooked a whole table of food. But she didn’t even look at me. She picked up her fork and started eating. Watching her eat, I let out a soft laugh. She paused, her fork hovering in the air. “What are you laughing at?” “Nothing,” I said. “Eat up, Mom. It won’t taste good once it gets cold.” She gave me a suspicious look. I leaned back in my chair. My hand slipped into my pocket, touching the crumpled diagnosis sheet that said I had late-stage stomach cancer. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

I was about to stand up to clear the dishes, but she stopped me. “Sit down.” She carried the bowls to the kitchen. “I’m staying here from now on to look after you.” I sat there, stunned. “These past years haven’t been easy for me. That bastard Richard just packed up and left, leaving the two of us.” “I raised you all by myself. You saw how much I suffered.” I sat at the dining table, silent. “When you were in college and had to pay those fees, I scraped every penny together for you.” “Back then, I was washing dishes at a diner for eight dollars an hour. I didn’t spend a single cent on myself. I gave it all to you.” In all these years, this was the first time I had ever heard her say this. “Mom…” She rinsed the bowls, put them on the rack, wiped her hands, and walked out. “So, stop doing those stupid eating streams.” I froze. “Mom, this makes good money. I need to support you.” “Support me?” She glared at me. “Is money all you care about now? Do you even care about me as your mother?” “That’s not what I—” “Then did you ever consider my dignity?” Her voice escalated. “Do you know what the neighbors back home are saying?” “They say you’re on the internet acting like a glutton, stuffing food down your throat like a pig. It’s humiliating.” “If this gets to Richard’s new wife, who knows how she’ll mock us.” I looked at her. “Dignity, dignity. That’s all you ever care about.” “Does dignity put food on the table? I have to make money while I still can. When my body gives out, I won’t be able to make a dime!” “What do you mean by that?” She glared at me. I shut my mouth. “What do you mean your body is giving out?” She walked over, standing right in front of me. “Are you hiding something from me?” “No.” I turned my face away. “I’m just saying, this job doesn’t last forever. I have to make as much as I can now.” She didn’t say anything. She sat back down on the couch. “Fine. Do whatever you want,” she said, her eyes dull. “But all the money you make has to go to me. I’ll keep it safe for you, so you don’t blow it.” When I was little, my mom’s eyes used to smile. Now, they never did. After a long silence, she whispered, “If you hadn’t been born a girl, your father would have never cheated with that woman.” “Mom, I was only seven when Dad cheated.” She went rigid. “Do you know what the saddest day of my life was? It wasn’t the day he left. It was the day he came back to visit me.” “He came back once a year to bring me snacks and buy me clothes.” “Whenever he came, you were happy. When he left, you cried. And after you cried, you would grab a switch and beat the pig.” My throat tightened. “Sometimes, when you beat the pig, I would squat right next to you and listen.” “Every time the pig squealed, I would flinch.” “You screamed, ‘Joy, why aren’t you dead yet?’ and I would wonder… should I be dead too?” Her lips trembled, but no sound came out. “Later, I realized you weren’t screaming at the pig. You were screaming at me. You were screaming at him,” I said. “But you couldn’t keep him, so you kept me. You took all your anger out on me.” She fell completely silent. That night, lying in bed, my phone buzzed. I scrolled down and saw a direct message. “Hey Joy, I’m a big fan of yours. Please take care of your health during your streams. Don’t eat too much. It breaks my heart to watch sometimes.”

At eight o’clock the next night, I started my stream on time. The moment the camera turned on, the chat began to flood. I smiled at the camera and picked up a piece of fried chicken. “Good evening, everyone! Thank you so much for the gifts. Today, your favorite curvy mukbanger, Joy, is eating fried chicken and spicy noodles!” The chat scrolled rapidly. “Joy looks a bit pale today…” “Eat up, eat up!” “Don’t eat too spicy, it’s bad for your stomach!” I tore off a piece of a chicken drumstick and took a bite. My stomach churned violently. I forced it down. As I was eating, the screen suddenly exploded with flashy animations. The chat went wild. “Ten thousand dollars! Oh my god!” “Thank you to the big boss!” I was stunned. I put down the chicken leg and stared at the screen. The user ID of the sender was “Richard.” A direct message popped up on my phone. “Joy, it’s Dad. Please stop the stream. Don’t eat anymore. I’m begging you.” I stared at the words. The screen exploded again—he had sent another ten thousand dollars. “Your mom took all the money I sent you in the past. I know that now. From now on, I’ll transfer it directly to you.” “Get off the stream, please. I’m begging you. Brenda is throwing a huge fit at home because of this.” My nose stung. I quickly lowered my head and chewed on the chicken. Then, another account sent fifteen thousand dollars. A DM followed. “Joy, it’s Brenda.” “Listen to me, sweetie, stop the stream. The relatives are all pointing fingers at me, saying I’m a horrible stepmother to you.” “Your dad and I made some good money in business these past two years. If you need money, just ask me.” The chat was still flying by. “Joy finally got some sugar daddies! You made it, girl! *crying emoji*” “Why is Joy crying?” I touched my face. It was wet. Just as I was about to speak, the door to the streaming room was kicked open. I turned around and saw my mom standing at the entrance. She was panting, her face bright red. Two staff members from my agency were behind her, trying to stop her but too afraid to grab her. “Mom, you…” She lunged forward and slapped me across the face. “When did you get back in touch with that cheating bastard?” “Huh? I raised you all these years, and you crawl back to him the second he throws some petty cash at you?” I held my burning cheek and looked at her. “Mom, I didn’t contact him…” Another slap. “Is that homewrecker Brenda there too? Did you call her ‘Mom’ yet?” I tried to speak, but she slapped me again. The live stream chat went completely chaotic. My mom grabbed me by my collar, dragging me in front of the camera, and screamed, “Look at this! This is the wonderful daughter I raised!” “Her dad cheated and abandoned us years ago. Now he comes back, throws a few dollars at her, and she’s wagging her tail like a dog to call him Daddy!” “And the homewrecker is here too! A happy little family reunion! What about me? What am I to her?” “She would rather give all her money to their new family than stay and take care of her own mother!” The chat was going insane. “Is this scripted or real?” “Wait, the big donor is her cheating dad?” “Stop hitting her!” The agency staff finally ran in to pull her away. My mom broke free, pointing at the camera and screaming, “Richard, you absolute piece of trash!” “Why are you acting like a saint now?” “And you, Brenda! You actually have the nerve to show up? You stole another woman’s husband. You’ll burn in hell!” Suddenly, the screen went black. The tech team had cut the stream. I stood there, my face burning, my ears ringing. My mom stood there panting, adjusting her clothes, and gave me a venomous look. I knew that look. That was the exact look she gave the pig when she beat it. The door pushed open, and Sarah, the operations director, walked in. She looked at my mom, then at me. Her expression was incredibly grim. “Joy, come to my office.”

I followed Sarah into her office. She closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit.” “I’ve heard some things about your family.” She poured a glass of water and set it in front of me. “It must be hard.” I didn’t say anything. “But business is business. What happened today is terrible for the company’s image.” “Joy,” her voice softened, “take a week off.” “Go home and sort out your family issues.” “The company employs a lot of people. We can’t let one person’s personal life ruin the entire business. You understand, right?” I raised my head to speak, but she waved her hand. “I know it’s not your fault.” She paused. “The cleaning lady told me she saw you throwing up blood in the restroom. More than once. I know about your health.” She pulled a card out of her drawer and slid it across the desk. “This is for the medical center our company partners with. Go get checked out.” “Health comes first. You can always make money later.” I looked at the card, my eyes welling up with tears. “Thank you…” Suddenly, the door burst open. My mom was standing there. “Director, I am so sorry, so sorry. I was just too emotional.” She bowed slightly, rubbing her hands together nervously. “I have a bad temper, and when I get anxious, I lose control. I’m so sorry for causing trouble.” Sarah didn’t say a word. My mom rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Joy, quick, get down on your knees and apologize to the director.” I didn’t move. She yanked me, but I remained still. The fake smile on her face stiffened. “This child, she is so stubborn.” She smiled apologetically at Sarah. “Director, please don’t mind her. She’s never known how to behave. I’ll teach her a lesson when we get home.” I used the desk to pull myself up. My stomach suddenly cramped violently. The pain was so intense that my vision blurred. I gripped the edge of the desk, my palms dripping with cold sweat. “Mom…” “What are you whining for?” She glared at me. “Apologize right now!” “Do you want to lose your job? If you lose this job, how are you going to support me?” Sarah ignored my mom, rushed over to me, and held my shoulders. “Joy? Joy, are you okay?” My mom sneered, “Director, don’t worry about her. She’s just acting. She always pulls this ‘I don’t feel well’ card.” “She’s been like this since she was a kid. Whenever I asked her to do chores, she’d suddenly have a headache or a stomachache…” “Actually, Director, if we put this family drama online, it would generate a ton of traffic, wouldn’t it?” I stared at her. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear the words. Everything in front of me began to fade into a dark haze. I reached out, desperately grabbing my mom’s wrist. She looked down at me. “Mom… I just want to ask you one thing…” “What now?” “Are you proud of me?” “Can you… just once… tell me I did good?” She looked at me, blinking. “Of course I am!” I stared at her, thinking I had finally gotten what I wanted. The next second, she shook off my hand and muttered, “Look, our pig back home is named Joy. We fatten it up to sell it for cash. You eat to make money. In my eyes, you’re both the same. You’re both my pride and joy.” I let out a hollow laugh. She frowned. “What are you laughing at?” The taste of copper rushed up my throat. Before I could even lower my head, I opened my mouth and sprayed a fountain of blood right onto her face. My mom froze. The dark red blood dripped down her chin. Her face turned deathly pale.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “442019”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

At the school’s End-of-Year Family Carnival, my husband, Ethan, finally gave in to our son’s begging. It was the first time he had ever come with me to pick up our son from school. The teacher walked out, holding our son’s hand. She gave Ethan a strange look and muttered casually, “Lily’s dad, when you used to pick up your daughter, you’d always show up thirty minutes early.” “How come you’re so careless when it comes to your son? A father shouldn’t play favorites.” The umbrella in Ethan’s hand slipped, clattering to the wet ground. Muddy water splashed all over my legs. I held my trembling son, who was wrapped in a faded school hoodie, and stared at the man in front of me. He felt like a total stranger. We only had one son. Where on earth did a daughter come from? Ethan shuddered violently, his voice shaking. “What rubbish are you talking about! I don’t have a daughter!” The teacher got frustrated and pointed toward the preschool classroom next door. “How could I mistake you? Just this morning, you brought a huge box of premium organic Rainier cherries for Lily to share with the other kids!” Ethan’s face went dead white. He grabbed my shoulder and tried to push me toward the car. “The teacher got the wrong guy. Babe, let’s go. Now.” I reached up, gently straightened his wet collar, and said softly, “What’s the rush?” Turning around, I smiled at the bewildered teacher. “Could you show me the way, please?” “I’d love to see what an amazing, world-class father my husband is to someone else’s child.”

The teacher walked ahead. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished concrete floor. Ethan stood frozen in place. I held Leo tightly in my arms, keeping my eyes locked on Ethan. The cuffs of Leo’s school hoodie were completely frayed, exposing his thin, pale little wrist. He buried his face in my neck. His body was shivering slightly from the rain. “Ethan, let’s go,” I called out. Ethan wiped the rain from his face. His skin looked sickly pale. “Claire, there’s really no need. The teacher must have gotten the wrong person. Preschool teachers these days are so unreliable.” He reached out to grab my arm. I stepped aside, dodging his hand. “Let’s just go look. Who knows? Maybe one of your clients has a kid named Lily too.” The teacher looked back at us, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Lily’s dad, it’s right ahead. Lily should still be having her snack.” Ethan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He didn’t say another word and followed silently behind me. The hallway was long, the walls covered in colorful children’s drawings. The teacher stopped outside a classroom door and pointed inside. “There she is. That’s Lily.” I followed her finger. The classroom was warm and brightly lit. A group of children in beautiful, expensive clothes sat around a circular table. Right in the middle sat a little girl. She was wearing a pink tutu dress and a sparkling crystal headband. She was holding a massive, deep-purple cherry, stuffing it into her mouth. The cherries were huge. They looked incredibly expensive. Leo shifted in my arms. He whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I want some too.” I gently patted his back. “Ethan, you told me you bought that box of cherries for a client.” Ethan stood by the back door of the classroom, not daring to step inside. He kept his head down, his voice barely a whisper. “I did give them to a client… Maybe their kid goes to school here. It’s probably just a coincidence. Same name.” Right then, the little girl named Lily looked up. She spotted Ethan standing at the door. Her eyes lit up. She tossed the cherry aside and jumped down from her chair. She ran toward us as fast as her little legs could carry her. “Daddy!” Her voice was high and loud, echoing through the hallway. Ethan stiffened completely. The young teacher inside the classroom looked over and smiled. “Lily, your dad is here to pick you up!” Lily threw her arms around Ethan’s leg, clinging to him. “Daddy, why are you so late today? Chloe said you were going to take me out for pizza!” Ethan instinctively pushed the little girl away, his panicked eyes darting to me. “No… Claire, let me explain.” He tried to shake his leg free from Lily’s grip. His movement was too rough. Lily lost her balance and landed hard on her butt. “Waaah!” The little girl burst into tears. Ethan bent down to help her, but froze halfway and pulled his hands back. A hurried set of footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway. A woman in a chic cream-colored trench coat rushed over. She scooped Lily up into her arms, frantically dusting off the girl’s dress. “What happened? How did you fall, sweetie?” The woman looked up, revealing a face with flawless, heavy makeup. It was Chloe. Ethan’s so-called “distant cousin.” She had moved to our city three years ago, claiming she needed help finding a job. When Chloe saw Ethan, her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Ethan, how could you let her fall and cry like this?” Before she could finish her sentence, she finally noticed me standing there. The expression on Chloe’s face froze. Holding the child, she took a half-step back. “Claire… you’re here too.” Leo coughed twice in my arms. I adjusted my grip on him, looking at the three of them. The man in a tailored suit, the woman in a designer trench coat, the child in a fancy tutu. Meanwhile, my son and I were soaking wet, looking completely miserable. Ethan opened his mouth to speak. I turned around and walked away. “We’re discussing this at home.”

The car heater was blasting. Ethan sat in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The windshield wipers moved with a rhythmic, irritating screech. Leo sat in his car seat in the back, wrapped in my damp jacket. He was still shivering. Ethan glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned. “Can you tell him to stop putting his feet on the seat? This is genuine leather. It’s expensive to maintain.” I pulled out some tissues and wiped the water from Leo’s hair. “Leo has a fever.” I touched my son’s forehead. It was burning hot. Ethan sighed, clearly annoyed. “It’s just a little rain. Kids aren’t that fragile. Once we get home, give him some warm water and let him sweat it out.” “Lily is a kid too. Why did you buy her such an expensive dress?” I asked quietly. Ethan slammed on the brakes. The sudden jerk threw me forward, my forehead slamming into the passenger seatback. Behind us, a chorus of angry car horns erupted. Ethan stepped on the gas again, his words pouring out in a defensive rush. “I told you, Chloe was stupid. She got pregnant by some guy who ran off. I only helped her out because I felt bad for a single mother!” “The kid grows up without a father, so she insists on calling me ‘Daddy.’ What am I supposed to do? Argue with a toddler?” “And the cherries?” “I bought them for a client! The client rejected them, so I just handed them to Chloe.” “You know how tight our budget is with the mortgage. Spending money on luxury fruit like that is just too extravagant for us.” I stared out the window at the passing streetlights. The faded hoodie on Leo was washed out, the sleeves a couple of inches too short. Last month, I told Ethan that Leo was growing and needed new clothes. Ethan had said: “Kids grow fast. Buying new clothes is a waste of money.” “My cousin has a son who just outgrew his old clothes. We can just take those hand-me-downs.” So, Leo kept wearing these oversized, worn-out rags. Meanwhile, Lily got to wear custom-made tutu dresses and crystal headbands. We drove into the underground garage. Ethan parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt first. “Look, stop acting like this. Chloe has a hard life. We need to be more generous.” “I’ll cook dinner tonight to make it up to you, okay?” He reached into the back to pick up Leo. Leo shrank back, avoiding his touch. Ethan’s hand hung awkwardly in the air before he pulled it back, miffed. “This kid… he’s never close to his own father.” Once we got home, Ethan went straight into the kitchen. I measured Leo’s temperature in the living room. 101.3°F. We were completely out of kids’ fever medicine. I walked into the study to see if there was an extra first-aid kit. The desk in the study was cluttered with a messy pile of receipts and documents. Ethan usually forbade me from entering the study, claiming it contained “confidential company files.” But today, the door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I could see the messy desk. With Leo in my mind, I pushed the door open. I rummaged through the drawers. No medicine. But my fingers brushed against a hard plastic card. I pulled it out. It was a Disney VIP Annual Pass. The photo on the card showed Chloe, Lily, and Ethan, all smiling brightly. Their heads were pressed together, with the Disney castle and fireworks in the background. Underneath the card lay a store receipt. The date was last Saturday. It was Leo’s birthday. Ethan had told me he had to work overtime and couldn’t make it home. Leo had waited up until midnight, eventually falling asleep at the dinner table. The receipt showed a long list of items: Princess Dress: $500. Crystal Shoes: $300. Luxury Seafood Buffet: $200. Total: $1,000. My hand holding the receipt shook violently. That night, Ethan hadn’t returned until after 1:00 AM. He had brought back a tiny, cheap cupcake from a gas station. It was barely the size of my palm, and the frosting had completely melted. He had hugged me and said: “Babe, the company is struggling lately. They cut our bonuses.” “We need to save. When we have more money, we’ll throw our boy a proper party.” And I had believed him. I had deposited all the money I made from my freelance design work into his account, not even buying myself a single new shirt. The study door flew open. Ethan stood there, wearing an apron, a spatula in his hand. When he saw what I was holding, his face twisted in rage. “Who gave you permission to go through my things?” He lunged forward, ripping the annual pass and the receipt out of my hands. His movement was so violent that the spatula almost scraped my face.

Ethan crumpled the receipt into a ball and shoved it into his pocket along with the card. “This was for networking! A client’s daughter wanted to go to Disney. What’s wrong with me tagging along? It’s for work!” I stared at him. “Ethan, did you really need to ‘network’ on Leo’s birthday? You know exactly what you did!” “So what? If I don’t work, where does the money for this house come from? Who pays the mortgage?” He yelled back defensively, his voice booming. “You think I want to work overtime? I’m doing all of this for you and our son!” From the living room, Leo began to cough violently. I ignored Ethan, pushed past him, and ran out of the study. Leo’s face was flushed red with fever. He was curled up on the couch, gasping for air. “Mommy… it hurts…” He clutched the edge of my shirt, his knuckles turning white. I scooped him up. “Let’s go. We’re going to the hospital.” Ethan followed us out. “The hospital? At this hour? Do you know how expensive emergency room copays are?” “We have ginger in the kitchen. I’ll make him some tea to sweat it out.” “Hospitals are just scams anyway. They charge hundreds of dollars for a minor cold.” As I slipped Leo’s shoes on, I pressed my cheek against his burning forehead. “He has a high fever. We are going.” Ethan blocked the front door. “Claire, stop wasting money! A fever won’t kill him.” “When I was a kid, I had a 104-degree fever. My mom just wrapped me in blankets, and I woke up fine the next morning.” “Get out of my way.” My voice was ice-cold as I glared at him. Ethan flinched at my expression. He reluctantly stepped aside, muttering under his breath: “Fine, go. Waste your money. You’re spoiling him. Can’t even handle a tiny cold.” He didn’t put on his shoes, nor did he grab the car keys. Obviously, he had no intention of coming with us. I hadn’t expected him to anyway. Carrying my fifty-pound son, I ran down the stairs and tried to hail a cab. It was pouring, and there were no Ubers nearby. I stood by the curb for twenty minutes, getting completely soaked. Leo kept crying out for his dad in his feverish delirium. My tears mixed with the rain, tasting salty on my lips. At the hospital, we went through emergency registration and blood tests. The doctor diagnosed him with acute pneumonia. He needed an IV drip immediately. I ran up and down the hospital corridors alone, paying fees and collecting medicine. When the nurse inserted the IV needle, Leo cried out, begging for his dad. The nurse looked at me, standing there alone, and asked, “Where is his father?” I shook my head. “He’s dead.” By the time the IV finished, it was 3:00 AM. Leo’s fever had finally gone down, and he fell asleep on the observation bed. As I sat beside him, my phone buzzed. It was a bank notification. [Your account ending in 4012 completed a transaction of $800.00 at 03:15 AM at Ivy Private Pediatric Clinic.] That card was under my name, but Ethan had it linked to his Apple Pay. That was the money I had been saving for Leo’s college fund. I immediately called Ethan. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. Ethan’s voice was hushed, and the background was dead quiet, like he was in a private hallway. “Hello? What do you want in the middle of the night?” “Where are you?” “In bed, sleeping.” “Then explain to me why $800 was just charged to my card.” Silence stretched on the other end for a few seconds. “Oh, that… I bought health insurance for Leo online.” “You know how expensive pediatric visits are. Better safe than sorry.” “You bought insurance from a luxury private pediatric clinic at three in the morning?” Ethan snapped. “Ugh, you are so annoying! Chloe’s kid got sick and she’s at this clinic. She didn’t have enough cash, so she borrowed it from me!” “She’ll pay me back tomorrow. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” *Click.* He hung up. I watched the screen of my phone fade to black. *Borrow?* Chloe didn’t even have a job. How was she going to pay it back? For the last three years, any money “borrowed” by her had never been seen again. Using my burner account, I opened Ethan’s Instagram. Just five minutes ago, he had posted a story set to “Close Friends” only. The photo showed a tiny hand with an IV drip, set against the backdrop of a luxurious private hospital room. The caption read: *[My heart breaks for my baby girl. Daddy will always protect you.]* In the comment section, Chloe had replied: *[Thank you, Daddy. We love you.]* Ethan replied: *[Always.]* I tapped the picture and zoomed in. On the bedside table sat a limited-edition Lego set—the exact one I couldn’t afford to buy for Leo. Meanwhile, my actual son was lying in a noisy, crowded public emergency room, covered in a thin, yellowed hospital blanket. My fingers gripped my phone so tightly they went numb. I turned to look at the sleeping Leo. He was so well-behaved, barely even crying out loud when he was sick. All because Ethan had once told him that “crying boys are annoying.” I stood up, walked over to the nurse’s station, and borrowed a pair of scissors. I snipped a piece of the medical tape. Then, I dialed our home landline. No one answered. He was at the private hospital, playing daddy to his mistress’s child. Perfect. I sat back down, opened my banking app, and transferred every single cent left in that account to my best friend, Sarah. There was only $2,000 left. Over the past three years, Ethan had drained all my savings using every excuse imaginable. He said he was investing, managing our wealth, and planning for our future. It turned out his “future” never included me or Leo.

The next morning, Leo’s fever had mostly subsided. The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and discharged us. When we got back, Ethan still wasn’t home. The kitchen was cold and empty. I made some oatmeal for Leo and helped him eat. He was such a good boy. Right after taking his medicine, he quietly went to his room to do his homework. I walked into our bedroom and opened the closet. Ethan’s side was lined with pristine, expensive designer clothes. He always said that as a manager, his appearance was his brand, so he couldn’t look cheap. On my side, there were only a few stretched-out t-shirts and old jeans. I pulled out a massive suitcase. And I began to pack. First went Leo’s clothes, books, and toys. Then my documents, my laptop, and my drawing tablet. My movements were swift, without a shred of hesitation. When I got to the nightstand, I pulled open the drawer. Deep inside was a small, locked box. This was Ethan’s prized possession. He kept the key on his keychain at all times. But last night, in his rush to leave for the private hospital, he had changed pants and left his keys on the shoe rack by the entryway. I walked over, grabbed the key, and unlocked the box. Inside was a stack of papers. Right on top was a DNA paternity test. Petitioner: Ethan Vance. Test Subject: Lily Lin. Result: 99.9% probability of paternity. Ethan Vance is the biological father of Lily Lin. The date on the report was from three years ago. Right around the time Chloe first came to “seek help.” It had been a scam from the very beginning. Underneath the report was a property deed. A brand-new condo downtown. The sole owner listed was Chloe Lin. Paid in full. The payment record was from two years ago. That was exactly when I had received a $20,000 design bonus. Ethan had come to me crying, claiming his mother was critically ill and needed immediate surgery. Without a second thought, I had handed him the money. I had even taken out a high-interest personal loan to cover the rest of the medical costs. To this day, I was still paying off the interest on that loan, working late nights to sketch designs. It turned out that the “dying mother” I had starved myself to save was actually a luxury condo for his mistress. A wave of intense nausea hit me. I rushed to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet, but nothing came up. Looking in the mirror, my face was pale and haggard, with fine lines creeping around my eyes. This was the reward for seven years of loving that man. I took clear photos of every single document, put them back exactly as they were, and locked the box. I placed the keys back on the shoe rack. Suddenly, the front door clicked open. Ethan was back. He carried a bag of takeout, a look of exhaustion on his face, but with an undeniable air of smug satisfaction. He had probably felt like a real hero playing family at Chloe’s bedside last night. “Babe, how is Leo? I bought some fresh bagels. They’re still warm.” He kicked off his shoes, walked in, and tossed the bag onto the table. When he saw the suitcase in the living room, he froze. “Are you going on a business trip?” I stepped out of the bedroom, holding my phone. “Yeah. The agency has an emergency project,” I said, keeping my voice completely flat. Ethan let out a sigh of relief and stepped closer to hug me. “For how many days? Can you skip it? There’s so much to do around the house, and you know I’m terrible with kids.” I stepped back, dodging his arms. “I have to go. Someone has to pay the mortgage.” Ethan rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Just make it quick. Oh, by the way, about that money…” “I transferred all of it to my best friend, Sarah,” I said. Ethan’s eyes widened. “What? Why the hell would you do that? I need that money right now!” “Chloe’s kid is getting discharged, and they’re short on cash. Transfer it back immediately!” “Sarah is sick. She’s in the hospital and needed a loan,” I lied smoothly. Ethan lost his mind. “Her parents can pay for her! Our money is for emergencies! How can you be so incredibly selfish?” “Chloe is a single mother. It’s hard enough for her. What if they stop her kid’s medication?” He lunged forward to grab my phone. “Give me the phone. I’ll transfer it back myself!” I took a step back, clutching my phone tightly. Hearing the shouting, Leo peeked his head out from his room. “Daddy…” Ethan didn’t even look at him. His face was twisted in pure rage. “Go back to your room! Stay out of grown-up business!” Leo flinched and slammed the door shut. I stared at Ethan’s ugly face. To pay for his bastard daughter’s private clinic bill, he was willing to rob his own son of emergency funds. “The transfer went through. I can’t get it back,” I said coldly. Ethan kicked the couch in frustration. “Claire, you are absolutely out of your mind! Fine! You want to play dirty? Don’t expect me to help you with anything ever again!” He snatched his car keys off the counter and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. *Bang.* The apartment fell into a dead silence. I walked over to Leo’s room and pushed the door open. Leo was clutching his backpack, tears welling in his eyes. “Mommy, are we leaving?” He had seen the suitcase. I knelt down and wiped his tears away. “Yes, sweetie. We’re leaving.” “Is Daddy coming with us?” “No.” “So… do I never have to wear old hand-me-downs again?” My throat tightened. I nodded fiercely. “Never. From now on, you only get brand-new clothes.” I grabbed our suitcase, took Leo’s hand, and walked out of the apartment we had lived in for five years.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “442018”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

All because Ethan Cross was obsessed with absolute fairness. For the five years of our marriage, every single decision in our household had to be decided by the roll of a die. Until my best friend, Chloe, texted me. She said Ethan was out on the streets, mobilizing a massive search party to find his first love’s lost dog. “That’s impossible!” I replied instinctively. “I just won the roll against him.” “He promised he would personally escort our son’s donor heart from the docks to the hospital. He should be arriving any minute.” But a phone call from our contact at the harbor slapped me right in the face. “Dr. Miller, I still haven’t seen Mr. Cross! We can’t delay young Leo’s surgery!” “There are too many dangerous eyes on this donor heart. It’s only safe if Mr. Cross escorts it himself.” Ethan’s phone went straight to voicemail. Left with no choice, I tracked his GPS location and drove out to find him. When I arrived, I saw him holding a sobbing Scarlett Vance tightly in his arms, while directing a fleet of luxury SUVs to fan out across the streets. “If you don’t find Buster—mine and Scarlett’s baby—you all know the consequences!” Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. This man, whose very life I had saved with my own medical skills, wasn’t worth it anymore. I was done.

As the search fleet sped away, Ethan turned to get into the driver’s seat. I rushed forward and grabbed his arm. “Ethan!” He spun around, startled. “Vivian? Why aren’t you at the hospital?” “I should be asking you that!” I grit my teeth, fighting back tears. “You promised me you would go to the docks to get Leo’s heart!” Leo was our four-year-old son. He inherited a congenital heart defect and had been on the transplant waiting list for a year. If his condition hadn’t suddenly taken a turn for the worse last month, we wouldn’t have had to spend millions coordinating a private international organ transfer. Ethan avoided my gaze, looking slightly guilty. “Vivian…” “You know how many competitors are waiting for this heart to fail! Why are you wasting crucial time helping this woman find a dog?” Hearing my words, the girl clutching his coat stopped crying. She shrank back into Ethan’s chest, trembling like a victim. “Watch your mouth, Vivian! Scarlett is a dear friend of mine!” Ethan’s voice turned cold. “Buster isn’t just a dog. He is our baby!” “If anything happens to him, Scarlett will break down!” Our baby? I carried Leo for ten months, nurtured him through four agonizing years of sickness, and he didn’t even rank above a dog in Ethan’s eyes? “No! I don’t care what you say today, you are going to the docks and bringing that heart to the hospital!” I blocked his car door with my body. “Once I’m in the operating room saving Leo, you can go find whatever dog you want—” “Stop being hysterical!” Ethan grabbed my collar and shoved me aside. I stumbled, nearly crashing onto the hard pavement. “Ethan!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “What happened to your absolute fairness? I won the roll this morning!” The winner calls the shots. That was Ethan’s golden rule. When we got married, he wanted me to resign from the hospital to be his private on-call doctor. I lost the roll, so I resigned. The day I went into labor, he got a call saying Scarlett was injured. He wanted to leave. We rolled, and I lost again. When my mother was rushed to the ER with a severe concussion, Scarlett’s car happened to break down on the highway. I rolled, and I still lost. But today, for the first time in three years, I finally won. He had agreed to cancel his plans of fixing Scarlett’s clogged toilet and promised to fetch Leo’s life-saving heart. Yet, he was breaking his word. “Play fair!” I blocked him again. “Are you going to break your own sacred rule?” Ethan paused. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his signature golden die, and handed it to me. “You win, you call the shots. Same as always.” He was so calm, so detached. My hands shook as I took the heavy gold metal. *I have to win,* I prayed in my heart. *Please.* The die rolled across his palms. The seconds felt like hours, sweat slicking my hands. But when it stopped, the single red dot facing upward made my vision go black. Before I could process it, Ethan snatched the die back. “No, that doesn’t count!” I fell to my knees on the gravel, grabbing his coat. “The asphalt is uneven! Let’s roll again, please…” “Vivian, you play, you accept the loss.” He took a step forward. I clung to his leg desperately. “I’m begging you, Ethan. Please!” “In the eight years I’ve known you, I have never begged you for anything. If Leo doesn’t get this surgery today, he will die!” Ethan paused. He didn’t look back, but he pulled out his phone. “Carter, take a car and fetch the boy’s transplant box from the docks.” Then he looked down at me. “Are you satisfied now?” “No!” My eyes were bloodshot. “The docks are dangerous. Only you, Ethan Cross, have the authority to get that heart out safely!” “Even if Carter drives your car, everyone knows you’re here looking for a damn dog! Do you think our enemies are stupid?” “Ethan, is that dog really more important than your own son’s life?” “Yes!” Ethan snapped. “Buster only responds to my scent and Scarlett’s!” He pointed a finger at my forehead. “Vivian, the more time you waste throwing this tantrum, the less of a chance your son has to survive!” With that, he brushed me off and slammed the car door shut. The words “your son” froze me to the core. I chose this man. I gave birth to this child. And I rolled the die myself. Who else could I blame for my rotten luck? The SUV roared to life, leaving me in a cloud of dust. As the dust settled, something caught the streetlights. I leaned down and picked up the golden die he had dropped in his haste. I shook it instinctively, and my heart sank into an abyss.

Carter drove like a maniac, clutching the steering wheel as the cooler box sat secured in the passenger seat. I checked my watch. We could still make it! At sixty miles an hour, we were only thirty minutes away from the hospital. The freezing wind whipped through the cracked window. I shoved my hands into my pockets and felt the cold weight of the golden die. Ethan had carried it for twenty years. Its edges were worn smooth. He always spoke of fairness, and I had almost convinced myself that his obsession was just a harmless quirk of his dangerous lifestyle. But just now, when I shook it in the quiet car, I felt a tiny, faint click from inside. “Carter,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You’ve been with Ethan for ten years, right?” “Yes, Mrs. Cross.” “Do you know how to rig a die?” Carter answered honestly, suspecting nothing. “It’s simple, ma’am. You just drill a tiny hole and insert a sliding lead pin inside.” “Whichever number you want to roll, you just tap the pin to the opposite side. Gravity does the rest.” I froze. My fingers trembled as I lightly tapped the die against my palm. I felt the subtle shift of weight. I rolled it onto the dashboard. It stopped perfectly on the number 3—the exact number I wanted. The blood in my veins turned to ice. There was never any fairness. The outcome had always been in Ethan’s hands. What he rolled simply depended on what he valued. He didn’t value my career. He didn’t care about my safety during childbirth. He didn’t care if my mother lived or died. To him, I never had any privilege. “Mrs. Cross, the road ahead is blocked.” The sudden screech of brakes pulled me back to reality. I leaned out the window. There was a barricade ahead. Along with the traffic cops, I immediately recognized Ethan’s men. One of them was handing a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills to a driver, who smiled and turned his car around. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Ma’am,” the guard said, recognizing me. “Mr. Cross had the police department shut down this street. No vehicles are allowed through.” Ethan had connections with the local precinct. Shutting down a minor street in this district was easy for him. But this was the fastest route to the hospital. “Move!” My voice shook violently. “My son’s heart is in this car! If anything goes wrong, your life won’t be enough to pay for it!” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cross. Mr. Cross’s orders are absolute. The road stays closed until Buster is found.” Buster. That damn dog again. With shaking hands, I dialed Ethan’s number. He picked up, his tone utterly dismissive. “Just take a detour, Vivian,” he sighed impatiently. “I need to find Buster before it gets dark.” “A detour will add an hour and a half! The donor heart will decay!” But on the other end, he was already distracted, murmuring sweet words to soothe a crying Scarlett. “You have a heart condition too! You know how painful a heart attack is!” I screamed into the receiver. “Ethan, do you not care if Leo dies?” “If he can’t even handle a little pain, he doesn’t deserve to be a Cross!” The man’s harsh roar left me stunned. Right. I had forgotten. He had always been like this—a ruthless, arrogant tyrant. Yet, his very life was something I had dragged back from the gates of hell. I was the one who found him collapsed and suffocating in a casino bathroom years ago. I was the one who risked my medical license, performing an emergency bypass in a locked-down clinic at three in the morning. I was the one who bore the insults of my own family, running through dangerous neighborhoods to source his black-market cardiac meds, even offending local syndicates for him. On the night he proposed, he had pulled out his golden die for the first time. He gave me a playful wink. “If you roll a higher number, I’ll give you a week to think about it. If you lose, you put on this ring and become Mrs. Cross right now.” Until today, I actually believed that night was a beautiful twist of fate. It turned out that for five years, I was just a clown being played in the palm of his hand. “Let’s roll a virtual die on Snapchat,” I said, closing my eyes. “If I win, you open the road. If you win, I’ll turn around.” “No way,” he said coldly. “I only trust real dice.” Suddenly, a sharp scream came through the receiver. “Scarlett!” Ethan’s voice panicked—a tone I rarely heard. “Why did you climb up that dirt slope? Did you hurt your ankle?” I hadn’t heard him speak with such tenderness in years. The call went dead. The dial tone beeped in my ear, cold and mocking. “Take the detour, Carter,” I whispered. *** I didn’t get home until midnight. I walked into the quiet house, turned on the lights, changed my shoes, and began picking up Leo’s scattered toys from the living room floor. The front door clicked open. The moment Ethan saw me, the exhaustion on his face morphed into pure rage. “Why the hell weren’t you answering my calls or texts?” I blinked, pulling out my phone. I had over a hundred missed calls from him. “You found Buster, I assume. That’s good,” I said, my voice completely hoarse. “Make sure to buy him some expensive treats. I’m going to take a shower.” My legs were shaking so badly I had to lean against the wall to stand. “Vivian, I’m talking to you!” Ethan marched over and grabbed my shoulder. “How is Leo? Was the surgery a success?” My throat tightened, a metallic taste of blood rising in my mouth. It physically hurt to breathe as I forced the words out. “He’s dead.” Ethan’s pupils contracted. His grip on my shoulder tightened. “What… what did you say?” “Our Leo is dead,” I said slowly, looking him dead in the eyes. “The donor heart decayed because it took too long. He went into cardiac arrest, and he didn’t make it.” Ethan’s mouth opened, but no sound came out except a strained, choked gasp. I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength and pushed his hand off me. “I want a divorce.”

Ethan stumbled back a step, nearly losing his footing under the double blow. “Our son just died, and you want a divorce?” Looking at the devastation in his eyes, I found it hilarious. “You were the one who had to find a dog. You were the one who ordered the roadblock. And now you’re blaming me?” “I didn’t know it would be this serious!” his eyes welled with tears. “Right. You didn’t know,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “After all, every time Leo had an episode, you managed to win the roll and leave to be with Scarlett.” Ethan choked on his words. “Vivian, you’re grieving. You can blame me all you want,” he said, reaching out to pull me into his arms. “But there’s no need to talk about divorce. We’ve been together for five years.” “We’ve been married for five years, and we dated for seven before that,” I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “In all those years, did you ever once break your ‘rules’ for me?” “I wanted to go back to the hospital, but you forced me to be your private doctor.” “I was in labor, and you left to bandage Scarlett’s sprained ankle.” “My mother got a concussion, and you were busy changing Scarlett’s flat tire.” “Ethan, as your wife, I never received an ounce of your care.” My voice felt incredibly heavy. “Living under your version of ‘fairness’ has exhausted me.” Ethan stared at me for a long time. The guilt in his eyes slowly hardened into cold arrogance. “Are you sure about this?” I nodded. I didn’t even have the energy to say “yes” anymore. “Then we do this the old-fashioned way.” His voice was freezing. “If you win the roll, I’ll sign.” He held out the golden die. The same die I had quietly slipped back into his coat pocket earlier. “To keep it fair, you roll first.” Under his confident gaze, I rolled. For the first time in our marriage, it landed on a perfect 6. “How is that possible?” His eyes went wide. “How did you roll a six?” “Why not? What did you expect me to roll, Mr. Cross? A one?” I casually manipulated the hidden pin inside the metal, rolling it again. It stopped precisely on the single red dot. Ethan stared at me, dumbfounded. “Just tell me what number you want. I can make it land on whatever you desire.” I slammed the die onto the marble coffee table, picked up a heavy metal trophy, and smashed it to pieces. A tiny metal pin rolled out and stopped near his shoe. I picked it up and held it in front of his face. “Five years, Ethan. You used this cheap trick to toy with my life for five years.” He opened his mouth to defend himself, but I raised a hand to cut him off. “Save your breath. You play, you accept the loss. I’ll have the divorce papers sent to your office once I sign them.” “Fine. Great.” Ethan laughed bitterly, his pride wounded. “Then pack your bags and get the hell out of my house. You want a divorce? You leave with absolutely nothing.” I never planned on taking a single dime of his dirty money anyway. But as I dragged my suitcase toward the door, he called out to me. “I just called the hospital,” he said coldly. “Leo’s body belongs to me. You have no right to touch him.” “What did you say?” “He carries the Cross name. And you’re just an unemployed housewife,” Ethan sneered. “You don’t even have the money to buy him a proper casket. What makes you think you’re qualified to handle his funeral?” I marched back and slapped him across the face. “Are you even human? You’re using our son’s body to force me back?” “So what if I am?” Ethan wiped a smear of blood from his lip. “If you take back the divorce, I’ll let you attend his funeral.” “Go to hell!” My chest heaved. “You are the monster who killed Leo. You don’t deserve to touch him!” “Fine,” Ethan shrugged. “Let’s make a bet. Winner calls the shots.” “Three days from now, on the VIP cruise ship in the harbor. I’ll be waiting.” He stepped closer, whispering in my ear, “But the buy-in is five hundred thousand dollars. Can an unemployed doctor like you even afford the seat?” That night, I dialed the international line for St. Mary’s Hospital in Germany. “Five hundred thousand dollars for a three-year contract, plus my exclusive patent for the cardiac formula. You get me and the formula. It’s a win-win.”

Three days later, I walked into the VIP lounge of the luxury cruise ship, carrying a briefcase. Ethan was lounging on the center leather sofa, surrounded by a thick cloud of cigar smoke. When I dumped the five hundred thousand dollars in cash onto the green felt table, the surrounding crowd erupted into laughter. “Mr. Cross, your ex-wife is hilarious. Does she not know we don’t play for petty cash here?” *Smack!* A loud slap echoed through the room. The man who had spoken was sent stumbling, a bright red handprint burning on his cheek. Ethan sat back down, casually rubbing his palm. “Remind me, what did you just call her?” “She’s… she’s your wife, sir…” the man stammered, clutching his face in terror. Scarlett Vance walked in, wearing a low-cut red silk dress and towering stiletto heels. “Just take the cash,” she purred, brushing her hand against Ethan’s jaw. She blew a puff of cigarette smoke into his face. “Consider it a little gift from Vivian to buy Buster some treats. Right, Ethan?” Ethan smiled, silently giving his consent. I turned away from them, checking the leather cup and the dice. “Everything looks fine. Let’s begin.” First round. Liar’s Dice. Ethan called three 3s. I raised it to four. He leaned forward, staring at me intensity. “When Leo passed away… did it hurt?” The cup in my hand wobbled slightly. “You should know,” I said, looking up. “You have the same condition.” “Did it hurt as bad as my attacks?” he pressed on, his voice dropping. “Like someone reaching into your chest and crushing your heart into pieces?” I closed my eyes, my palms slick with sweat. “Five 3s,” I called. “Show them,” Ethan said instantly, revealing his dice. I lost the first round. “You’re distracted,” Ethan leaned back on the sofa. “Focus on the next round.” The second round began. I played defensively. But Ethan kept raising the stakes, pushing from three 4s all the way to six 4s. “The morgue called me, asking when to cremate him,” he said casually. “I told them to wait until I finish this game.” “Seven 4s,” I said, keeping my voice dead steady. He revealed his dice. He didn’t expect me to actually have them. I won the second round. “One to one,” the dealer announced. By the final round, Ethan’s hand was shaking slightly as he shook the cup. “I actually went to see him after he died,” Ethan murmured softly. “He looked so much like you. Especially with his eyes closed.” The cold sea breeze swept through the open deck doors, making my spine shudder. “Three 6s,” I called. “Four,” he followed. “If I hadn’t closed that street that day, what would we be doing right now?” Ethan choked slightly. “Would you still be my wife? Would the three of us still be a happy family?” “Five 6s,” I raised my voice. “Six.” Suddenly, the sound of rolling wheels echoed from the corridor outside. Through the glass partition, I saw a small, brown wooden coffin being rolled by. It was only four feet long, covered in a white sheet. My hand slipped. The cup tipped over. Reveal. I had two 6s. He had three. But I had called six. “I win,” Ethan said, lifting his cup with a complicated look. “Vivian, you still can’t beat me.” “Make your choice,” he stared at me. “Tear up the divorce papers, and we’ll bury Leo together.” “Or get off my ship. You won’t be allowed near his funeral.” Right then, the heavy double doors of the VIP room were kicked open by heavily armed SWAT officers. “Nobody move! Hands in the air! We have a warrant for illegal high-stakes gambling!” “What a joke!” Ethan slammed his hand on the table. “My ship is in international waters. And this is a private game with no money exchanged. You have no jurisdiction here!” “International waters?” the captain took off his mask, smirking. “Mr. Cross, I suggest you take a look outside.” Ethan rushed to the deck. The glowing neon skyline of the harbor was right in front of him. “Actually, I had five hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” I whispered, walking up behind him. “The extra twenty thousand was more than enough to convince your captain to turn the ship back.” “And one more thing.” I patted his shoulder. “The five hundred thousand dollars Scarlett took from me? That counts as a monetary transaction. It’s officially a crime.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “442017”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

My parents always taught me that a girl had to be independent. They were getting old, and it was time for me to shoulder the family’s burdens. I remember pointing at my brother, Austin, and saying naively, “But we have Austin. He should learn to be independent too.” Not long after that, Austin had a terrible fall. He became completely bedridden. I worked part-time jobs while taking care of my paralyzed brother, yet our family still survived on discarded vegetables and wore second-hand clothes rescued from the trash. To make more money, I signed up for sketchy, under-the-table medical drug trials. But because of that, I developed severe skin cancer. My body began to rot. Without hesitation, I left every single dollar of that blood money to Austin. I didn’t even keep enough cash to buy a bottle of sleeping pills for myself. In the end, I pulled a plastic trash bag over my head and ended my own life. Yet, after my death, I saw Austin playing in a high-stakes championship basketball game. When it ended, my parents rushed to hug him and gifted him the most expensive mansion in the city. It turned out they had staged this entire tragedy of poverty. I was the only actor who took the script seriously. But now that I’m actually dead, why do they look so full of regret?

I was preparing for my second drug trial. The nurse, about to insert the needle, froze when she saw the massive rotting sores on my arm. She gasped, her hand shaking so hard that the syringe dropped to the floor. They rushed me in for a full medical examination. Before I could even ask about the rotting skin, they dragged me out and threw me onto the street. The nurse threw my cash and the medical report right at my face. “You have skin cancer and you still dared to come for drug trials? How desperate for money are you? You signed the waiver, so even if you died on our table, it’s on you. Take the money and get the hell out. Don’t you dare try to sue us!” Those words hit me like a lightning bolt. I froze on the pavement. Ever since the trials started, my skin had been incredibly itchy and flaky. Every time Sarah struggled to sweep up the dry skin from my bedsheets, I felt so incredibly guilty. I never imagined it was the prelude to my death. Dejected, I picked up the report and stared at the bold letters, desperately wishing my eyes were playing tricks on me. Just then, my phone buzzed. Sarah’s gentle voice echoed in my ear. “Chloe, we’re working extra hours for some cash today and won’t make it back for lunch. Remember to cook for Austin.” I swallowed my tears and choked out a quiet, “Okay.” My feet felt like lead as I walked back home. Seeing Austin lying on the bed, I immediately shoved the medical report under my wooden cot. But looking at him, my eyes welled up with tears. Austin looked at me and whispered, “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m holding you back. Honestly, it’s fine if I skip lunch.” I walked over and sat by his bed for a long time before I could find my voice. “Austin, what will you do if I’m not here one day?” Austin gently patted my head, his eyes full of affection. “What are you talking about? I’d die for you before I let anything happen to you. You’re going to be fine. We just have to stay strong. Things will get better soon.” But I wasn’t going to get better. I stood up, wiped my tears, and did something I never did—I bought some fresh eggs to boil for Austin. As soon as the food was on the table, David and Sarah dragged their exhausted bodies through the door. They pulled a bunch of bruised, discarded lettuce leaves from their tattered canvas bags. David took a big gulp of cold tap water, looking excited. “Sarah was so fast today. She grabbed these from the supermarket dumpster before anyone else. They’re fresher than usual!” I looked at them, but my mind was completely blank. Sarah pulled a gourmet cupcake from her bag and placed it in my hand. “It’s your birthday today. We can’t afford a cake, but you should still have something sweet.” I held the heavy, beautifully frosted cupcake, but I couldn’t bring myself to smile. The words from the medical report kept spinning in my head. The sweet aroma of the frosting snapped me back to reality. I placed the cupcake in front of Austin. “Give it to Austin. I don’t really like sweets.” Austin pushed my hand back. “It’s your birthday, Chloe. You eat it. I’ll just take a tiny taste of the frosting to celebrate.” Saying that, he dipped his finger in the frosting and licked it. A gourmet cupcake like this cost as much as our grocery budget for a week. No matter what, I couldn’t swallow it. David and Sarah sat down at the table, gnawing on stale, yellowed bread. They refused to touch the boiled eggs I made. Looking at their mismatched, oversized clothes rescued from thrift store dumpsters, my heart ached with agonizing pain. The terror of knowing I was going to die was slowly washed away by sheer pity for my family. I wanted to beg my parents for comfort, but I chose to keep my mouth shut about the cancer. If my death meant one less mouth to feed, and if it could make their lives easier, then I was willing to die.

I just didn’t understand. We all worked so hard, so why were we always so poor? To save money when we were kids, David and Sarah moved us to a run-down trailer park on the edge of town. Almost every kid here came from extreme poverty. Their families put all their hopes on them. So, the kids here were incredibly tough and studied hard. Sarah never complained about the harsh life. Instead, she grabbed my hand excitedly. “In an environment like this, Chloe, you will definitely grow up to be strong and successful.” I turned to look at Austin, my innocent eyes wide. “I hope Austin will be as independent and strong as me.” But not long after, Austin fell and became paralyzed. I was consumed by guilt. I used to sit by Austin’s bed and slap myself hard across the face. I believed my stupid mouth had cursed him to be bedridden forever. To make up for it, I started working part-time while going to high school. But a student could only get the most brutal, lowest-paying gigs. In the scorching ninety-degree summer heat, I stood on the asphalt handing out flyers. When I was dying of thirst, I couldn’t even bear to spend a dollar on a bottle of water. I would pick up half-empty bottles discarded by strangers, saving the plastic bottles to sell later. To fight the homeless people for those plastic bottles, I was cornered in an alley. They stuffed trash into my mouth, kicking and punching me to warn me off. With a mouth full of blood and bruises all over my body, there were times I wanted to buy cheap painkillers. But I forced myself to save every single cent for Austin’s treatment. To numb the pain, I resorted to rubbing soot from trash fires into my cuts. When David and Sarah found out, they gave me a huge thumbs-up. “Our daughter has incredible resilience. You already have the mindset of a successful leader.” But they had no idea how excruciating it was to rub trash ash into open wounds. I didn’t dare make a sound. Even asking Sarah for a simple hug felt like a selfish luxury. Because every minute I wasted meant less money earned. I looked at the sweet cupcake on the table, a dark resolution forming in my mind. Just then, Sarah walked in, sat on the edge of my cot, and gently stroked my hair. She looked apologetic. “Someone recommended a great specialist. We’ve saved up a bit of money recently, and we want to take Austin out of town to see him. Maybe… just maybe, he can stand up again.” It was such a normal farewell, but it felt like a knife twisting in my chest. They had traveled to see doctors with Austin before, but this time, it would be my final goodbye. I pushed my grief aside, scrambled up, and pulled all the cash from my bag, forcing it into Sarah’s hands. Seeing Sarah’s shocked expression, I lied with red eyes. “It was just Valentine’s Day. A lot of rich couples got into fights and threw away expensive gifts. I got lucky, found some, and sold them.” Sarah hugged me, her face full of pride. “Take care of yourself at home. We’ll be back soon.” I leaned against the window frame, watching their figures slowly disappear down the dusty road. Only then did I realize that in my desperation to save Austin, I hadn’t left a single dollar for myself. Tears streamed down my face. Through the blur, I saw the plastic bag that had wrapped the cupcake on the table. I took a tiny bite of the remaining cupcake. The sweetness exploded in my mouth. To have Sarah’s final gesture of love was enough for me. I pulled the plastic bag over my head and slowly pulled it tight around my neck. The sweet smell of vanilla made me feel like I was drifting into a dream. My hands hesitated. But I quickly forced myself to focus. This family couldn’t afford another sick person. Without me as a burden, they could focus entirely on curing Austin. I clenched my teeth and pulled the plastic tight. Soon, the dim light in the room was swallowed by an endless, silent darkness.

When I woke up again, I felt weightless. When I saw a stiff, pale version of myself lying on the cot, I finally realized I was dead. I floated closer. My face was a sickly blue. Already malnourished, I looked even uglier in death. But my only thought was: *How is Austin doing?* As that thought consumed me, I suddenly vanished and reappeared at a basketball court. Before I could process why my ghost was teleporting, I saw David and Sarah sitting in the VIP stands, beaming with joy. They were wearing expensive, designer clothes. Even if our family had saved for a lifetime, we couldn’t have afforded a single sleeve of those outfits. I floated in front of them, but they looked like total strangers. Sarah’s bright red lipstick was striking, and her perfectly styled blonde waves made her look exactly like a wealthy socialite. Confused, I followed their gaze down to the court. There, I saw my paralyzed brother, Austin, running and dribbling the ball with incredible agility. I recognized the jersey he was wearing. It was a limited-edition designer brand that money could barely buy. My mind spun. Suddenly, the buzzer sounded. David and Sarah rushed onto the court, throwing their arms around Austin with pure adoration. “Austin! We didn’t spend all those years taking you around the world for nothing!” But Austin was paralyzed… how did he travel the world? Even in my confusion, seeing him healthy made me ecstatic. “Austin! You’re okay? How did you get better?” But no matter how loud I screamed, they didn’t react. Austin hugged Sarah. “Mom, I was going crazy pretending to be paralyzed for so long. Thank God I could use those ‘doctor visits’ as an excuse to travel and actually stretch my legs.” David and Sarah cupped his face, overflowing with affection. “You’ve worked so hard, son. Today, we have a gift for you.” David pulled out a deed. It was for a luxury mansion in the city’s most exclusive gated community. I remembered that place. I had stood outside its gates once, staring in awe. Back then, Sarah had told me, “We won’t be poor forever, Chloe. If you work hard, you’ll live in a house like this one day.” But it turned out they didn’t need to work hard. They already owned it. Austin seemed to remember something and looked at them. “By the way, Chloe was crying when she got home yesterday. Did something happen to her?” Sarah instantly looked tense and grabbed his arm. “You didn’t blow your cover, did you? Our plan is almost complete. We can’t let it ruin now.” Austin shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ve played the part this long, I won’t disappoint you. But I still feel like Chloe is hiding something.” Sarah nodded, telling him not to overthink it. She said they would check on me when they got back. Full of questions, I followed them back to the mansion. The villa was blindingly bright, filled with maids rushing around. Someone even held out slippers for them, and the dining table was piled high with expensive delicacies. It turned out today was Austin’s engagement party. They had invited high society’s finest. Sarah stood next to David, whispering, “Chloe has been acting strange lately. She used to be so full of positive energy. And she handed me so much cash before we left… You don’t think she got it illegally, do you?” David wrapped an arm around her, speaking patiently. “No way. We raised her to be independent, and her morals are solid.” “Besides, Austin’s career is stable now, and Chloe is graduating in a few days. On Austin’s wedding day, we’ll tell her the truth. She’s inheriting a multi-million dollar company right out of college. She’ll probably think she’s dreaming.” Standing beside them, my tears fell silently onto the marble floor. *David, Sarah… I won’t be smiling. And I’m never waking up.*

The engagement party was a massive success, and they set the wedding date for a week later. After waving goodbye to the guests, David and Sarah pulled out their phones, looking slightly anxious. “We’ll be busy planning the wedding this week, so we can’t go back to the old place. We should call Chloe and let her know.” Sarah dialed my number eagerly, but it just kept ringing. I floated next to her, wanting to tell her I was right there. But my hand passed right through her shoulder. I could never hug her again. I recalled smelling expensive perfume on them back in the trailer park. They had always lied, saying they just ran into some rich ladies. I recalled the photos Sarah sent me—they were far too high-quality to have been taken on her cheap, cracked phone. And Austin… his legs had remained muscular and toned despite supposedly being paralyzed for years. It was all just a sick game of “poverty,” and I was the only actor who didn’t know it was a script. My grief suffocated me. But looking at their happy faces, a part of me felt relieved. If they were living well, I didn’t have to worry anymore. After a long time, I floated upstairs. At the end of the hallway was a bedroom. I walked in. The layout was incredibly familiar. It was decorated exactly like the dream room I had sketched in my notebook years ago. On the nightstand was a framed photo of the four of us. My school trophies and certificates from childhood were neatly arranged on the desk. Just then, a cat wandered into the room. Even the cat was the exact breed I had drawn. They remembered every single dream I had. They had built it all for me. This room was a beautiful fairytale, but I could only watch. I could never touch it. Loud footsteps echoed in the hallway. I turned around. Several personal stylists in sharp suits walked in, holding a row of gorgeous designer gowns. David, Sarah, and Austin stood before the outfits. “Our suits are ready. Now, let’s choose Chloe’s dress. This will be our big surprise for her.” Looking at the price tags, each dress cost more than I used to earn in a year of grueling labor. Now, a whole rack of them was mine. Austin picked up a stunning blue gown with a long train. “This blue one is perfect for Chloe. She’s so fair, she’ll look like royalty in this.” David shook his head. He pulled out a white tulle gown. “No, Chloe should wear this one. When she was little, she would stare at the dolls in the boutique window for hours. She’ll love the tulle.” Austin stared at the rack for a moment, then grabbed a pastel pink gown. “You guys still don’t get Chloe. Pink is her absolute favorite. She’s wanted pink things since she was a toddler.” “But light colors get dirty too easily. To save money, she always forced herself to choose dark, ugly clothes. Her classmates used to call her a cheap, dirty peasant because of it.” David and Sarah looked pained, exchanging a sad look before agreeing with Austin. In the blink of an eye, it was Austin’s wedding day. They had been too busy to check on me all week. On the morning of the wedding, Sarah happily sent the family chauffeur to fetch me. She whispered to the driver, “When you get there, don’t tell her who sent you. We want to give her the surprise of her life.” The driver nodded and sped off to the trailer park to pick up the “secret heiress.” But after hours of waiting, I never arrived. Instead, the chauffeur burst through the mansion doors, his face pale with horror. “Ma’am… Sir… something terrible has happened. The trailer is surrounded by police. Chloe… Chloe is dead.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “442016”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster