New Year’s Day, I visited my childhood friend’s home. Archer extended a hand from the bathroom, his voice languid, “Asteria, could you grab my pajamas?” His mom, spatula in hand, burst out of the kitchen. “How old are you? Asteria’s a girl, you know, you should avoid impropriety.” Archer emerged, wrapped in a towel, utterly unfazed. “What’s the big deal?” He wasn’t wrong. This was our third year of a secret relationship. We’d long since done things far more intimate. His mom shot him a glare. “It didn’t matter before, you two grew up together, naturally closer than others. But not anymore. Asteria has a boyfriend now.” Archer froze, his face suddenly turning cold. “Boyfriend? She can’t possibly have a boyfriend.” 1 Auntie Gwen was about to retort when a sizzling sound erupted from the kitchen, a smell of burning spreading through the air. She dropped her lecture for Archer and stormed back into the kitchen, spatula aloft. “Oh no, my fish!” The air fell silent again, leaving just Archer and me in the hallway. Steam wafted from the half-open bathroom door. His towel was loosely draped around his waist, his ‘V-line’ disappearing into shadow. He stood there, watching me intently, relentless. I wasn’t in the mood for a standoff. Turning, I walked to his room and pulled out his usual dark gray silk pajamas from the closet. Returning to the bathroom door, I handed them over, my gaze fixed on the wall beside him. “Your pajamas.” Archer didn’t take them. After a few seconds, I asked, puzzled, “Do you want them or not?” The next second, my wrist was abruptly seized. Bang! The bathroom door slammed shut behind me. The small space filled with humid heat. Archer pinned me against the door. My spine prickled with cold, but his bare, scorching body pressed against mine. “Archer! What are you doing!” I closed my eyes, warning him in a low voice. He chuckled softly, coaxing me, “What else could I be doing?” Archer’s other hand pressed against my waist, his thumb deliberately stroking the thin fabric of my dress. He leaned in, as if to kiss me. I snapped my eyes open, pushing him with all my strength. “Don’t touch me.” Archer frowned, as if accustomed to my level of resistance, even showing a hint of helpless indulgence. “Still mad?” he murmured. “I was out of line that day, said things I shouldn’t have. But Asteria, is this really why you’re pushing me away? How long are you going to keep this up?” I turned my head, avoiding his touch, my eyes fixed on the gaps in the floor tiles. “We broke up, Archer.” Archer scoffed, as if he’d heard a joke. “Broke up? How many times have you said that? When have you ever meant it?” “This time, I’m serious.” I looked up at him. That day, we’d had yet another argument, this time about Willow. I angrily shook off his hand and blurted out, “We’re over. Don’t follow me!” But I hadn’t walked far before I, spineless as ever, looked back. Archer was handsome, smart, always the golden boy. Countless girls secretly adored him, and I was one of them. Being close to someone doesn’t always mean you’re the chosen one. From my place as a friend, I watched girls come and go from his life. I grew increasingly insecure, even self-deprecating. The one who loves more is always more desperate, and finds it harder to let go. So, when I finally got what I wanted, even when he insisted we keep it a secret, even when he indulged his junior classmate’s flirtations, I could never bring myself to truly break up with him. Archer just stood there, head down, starting a game on his phone. Hearing my movement, he looked up, a casual smile on his face. “Didn’t you tell me not to follow you?” I froze, a sudden emptiness in my heart. It was replaced by an unprecedented calm. I was used to chasing after him, but in that moment, I suddenly felt so tired. So that day, I wiped away my tears with determination and said, “Archer, let’s really break up.” And Archer, as usual, gave me the silent treatment, waiting for me to come back and apologize. Except this time, he went to the north for eight months with that junior classmate, and I didn’t contact him once. He seemed to recall the scene too, the lingering trace of a smile in his eyes instantly vanishing. He straightened up, irritably raking his damp black hair back from his forehead, revealing a smooth brow and sharp cheekbones. “Asteria Hayes.” He used my full name, his voice deepening. “I didn’t agree. That was just something said in anger.” “Eight months.” My lips twisted, my voice clear and slow. “Eight whole months. You didn’t call me once, didn’t send a single message. Archer, do those eight months count as ‘just something said in anger’?” He froze, his lips moving as if to speak, but he instinctively reached out to me again. I took a step back, completely widening the distance between us. His hand hung in mid-air, fingers curling, before slowly dropping back to his side, clenching into a fist. “Asteria, the professor gave us short notice for a field study. I didn’t realize the place was so remote, and would take so long…” Knock, knock, knock. A knock on the door sounded just then. My parents must have arrived. I quickly interrupted his unfinished sentence. “You don’t need to explain to me.” I took a deep breath; the humid air of the bathroom, carrying his scent, filled my lungs, feeling a little stifling. “I don’t want to hear it anymore. From now on, in front of our families, we’ll act like ordinary friends. It’s better for everyone.” “Ordinary friends?” Archer chewed on the words, as if he’d heard something utterly absurd. A suffocating silence followed. Then, he suddenly pulled back his lips and laughed. “Fine,” he nodded, stepping aside to let me out. “Asteria. You’re the boss. Whatever you say.” 2 At the dinner table. Auntie Gwen, pressing for marriage, placed a piece of food on Archer’s plate. “Asteria has a boyfriend now, you need to bring a girlfriend home soon. I’m hoping for grandkids.” My parents looked at me, surprised. “You have a boyfriend? Since when? You didn’t tell us.” Archer, who had been silent, suddenly spoke, his tone casual yet pointed. “It’s not fake, is it? You’ve always been so obedient, how come even Auntie and Uncle don’t know about this?” I ignored him and nodded. “Yes, but we just started dating recently.” Out of the corner of my eye, Archer’s knuckles, gripping his chopsticks, were slightly white. I served myself a bowl of soup, my voice even. “He’s younger than me and just inherited his family’s publicly traded company, so he’s incredibly busy with work. I figured I’d wait until things settled down before officially introducing him to you all.” Archer suddenly let out a small laugh, putting down his chopsticks and leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on my face. “Is your boyfriend 6’2”, looks like a model, worth millions, and the only son of the boss?” I nearly choked on my water, surprised. “How did you know?” Archer scoffed for a moment, then said flatly, “I guessed. Isn’t that how all rom-com heroes are?” The table instantly fell silent. Archer’s mom immediately threw a napkin at him. “You brat, what’s wrong with you today! You sound like you’ve been eating gunpowder.” My parents, who always trusted Archer, immediately grew anxious. “Archer makes a good point. Is your boyfriend really that amazing? So exaggerated, could he be a scammer? There are all sorts of people these days, you really need to be careful, don’t get carried away.” Archer probably believed I couldn’t leave him and was just making up a fake boyfriend out of spite. But I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him. I patted my mom’s hand. “Don’t worry. He’ll be visiting you over the New Year.” I met Archer’s gaze, speaking each word clearly. “You’ll see for yourselves then.” My parents relaxed, and the atmosphere became lively again. For the latter half of the meal, Archer was unusually silent, only occasionally forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I got up to get water from the kitchen and turned to see Archer leaning against the doorframe, having watched me for who knew how long. I walked directly towards the door, intending to go around him. He stepped across, completely blocking my path. I patiently didn’t want to argue with him in front of our parents. After all, we had broken up, and our relationship had been secret. A scene now would only make things awkward for both families. “Move.” Archer’s eyes held an unreadable emotion. “It’s truly something, for you to make up all these stories without batting an eyelid.” I rolled my eyes. “Believe what you want.” I tried to go the other way, but he blocked me again. “What do you want?” Silence stretched for a few seconds. He reached out and, without a word, took the water glass from my hand, placing it aside. Then he put the steaming glass he was holding into my palm. “Your period is coming soon. Don’t drink anything cold.” “Thanks.” I said, after a moment of surprise, my tone flat. 3 The company called an emergency meeting, informing me of a project issue and asking me to return to the city for overtime. At eleven o’clock, I was finalizing the last version of a presentation. My phone screen lit up, showing a missed call from Archer and two messages. “My mom asked me to drop off some late-night snacks at your place. Your parents said you went back to the office for overtime?” I rubbed my tired eyes, feeling impatient. “Yeah.” “It’s almost the holidays, and it’s late, so it’s hard to get a cab. I’ll come pick you up.” “No need, my boyfriend will be here.” Archer chuckled softly. “Asteria, do you have to annoy me? I said I’m sorry, isn’t that enough? Just give me a break and let me take care of you.” “You’re really overthinking this.” I hung up, not in the mood to argue. Late at night, after finishing overtime, I went downstairs. The early spring night air carried a biting chill. Archer’s SUV was parked right at the entrance. I paused, surprised. The passenger side window immediately rolled down, revealing Willow’s round face. “Asteria, long time no see.” I gave a slight nod, a minimal greeting. But I didn’t stop, walking straight towards the roadside. Archer opened his door and quickly got out. He’d changed into a dark gray overcoat that made him look tall and lean. When we were together, I loved him in overcoats. “Asteria.” He approached me. “Willow just got back to the country and hasn’t gotten a local SIM card yet, so she can’t call a ride-share. It’s on my way, so I gave her a lift. Get in the car, stop acting out.” There it was again, “acting out.” The phrase pricked at an already numb nerve, like a fine needle. “I’m not acting out.” I looked up, calmly meeting his gaze, and at the same time, unlocked my phone, holding the screensaver up for him to see. “I couldn’t care less about your relationship with her. I remember I’ve told you countless times that I have a boyfriend. Archer, the great scholar, your memory can’t be that bad, can it?” The screen’s light illuminated a small patch of air between us. Archer’s gaze fixed on the screensaver, his pupils imperceptibly contracting. “Danny Thorne?” He then laughed. “Asteria, at least make your lies believable. Don’t joke around; back in college, he hated you the most. We shared a dorm; he was always telling me to break up with you.” Willow, sensing her cue, got out of the car and walked to Archer’s side, gently tugging his sleeve, a look of worried reluctance on her face. “I’m so sorry, I’m causing trouble for you two again. But Asteria, even if you’re angry with Archer, you shouldn’t drag others into it. It’s really rude. Besides, Danny is famously cold and distant. He barely even spoke to you; how could you suddenly be together?” Her hair blew in the night breeze, and she shivered slightly, leaning closer to Archer. I looked at her, forcing a smile. “You know you’re trouble, and you still come to cause it for me. If you’re intentionally stirring things up, don’t play the victim in front of me. You toxic bitch.” Willow gasped, covering her face in disbelief, on the verge of tears. Archer frowned, his voice cold. “Asteria, don’t go too far…” I flipped him off, still feigning a smile. “Asshole. Did I forget to insult you? Break up, break up, break up, break up, break up. Can you hear me now? Get lost.” Archer, enraged, laughed, pulling Willow into his arms. “Fine, then I’ll be with her. You have no objections, right?” I clapped. “You two go ahead and get hitched!” Without another look at their reaction, I turned and walked away.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580593”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day of our engagement, Noah’s little “friend” called him seven times. He paused, a diamond ring gleaming under the lights, midway through placing it on my finger. He glanced at the screen, not even a flicker of a frown, and simply hung up. I kept my smile in place, my fingernails digging into my palms. That unlabelled number—I’d memorized it three years ago. When the eighth call came through, Noah finally stood up, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “Urgent client matter, I need to take it.” I clutched his sleeve, the engagement ring blindingly bright. “What client needs seven calls during our engagement party?” Noah froze for half a second, then chuckled. “Asteria, are you checking up on me?” A low ripple of laughter spread through the guests below. I let go of his sleeve. The ninth call. When Noah returned, his arm around my shoulder, he said, “Willow had a bit of an issue. I need to go over there.” Someone joked, “Mr. Thompson, this is your engagement party!” Noah smiled and shook his head, a mix of helplessness, indulgence, and a hint of affection. “I can’t help it. She’s all alone in New York; if she runs into trouble, she only has me.” He kissed my forehead. “Asteria is the most understanding, right?” I stared at the sugar-frosted couple on the cake, a wave of nausea washing over me. Understanding. I’d heard that word for seven years. 1 Noah came back at 3 AM. I was sitting on the living room carpet, still in my engagement dress. He opened the door, reeking of alcohol, and paused when he saw me. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” “Waiting for you.” He walked over, instinctively reaching to ruffle my hair, but I turned my head, dodging his touch. His hand hung in the air for a moment before he sat on the sofa, loosening his tie. “There was a problem with the fire inspection at Willow’s gallery. I found someone to handle it. She was terrified, crying constantly, so I had to stay and comfort her.” I looked up. “Noah, today was our engagement party.” “I know.” He closed his eyes, weary. “That’s why I rushed back, didn’t I? Asteria, please don’t make a scene, okay? I’m really tired today.” I laughed, a bitter, angry sound. “I’m making a scene? You abandoned me in front of all our guests for Willow, and now you’re saying I’m making a scene?” Noah opened his eyes, his gaze full of incomprehension. “How can that be the same? Willow had a real problem. Those toasts and social obligations were just going through the motions. Asteria, you used to not be so petty.” Yes, I used to. Before, when he spent Willow’s birthday with her, ditching me at the cinema, I said, “It’s fine.” Before, when he drove to pick her up drunk in the middle of the night, forgetting I had a high fever, I said, “You should.” Before, when he arranged for her to work at his company, and then smiled and said, “Good, you can rest more,” when my job application was rejected, I said, “Whatever you say.” I was too understanding, so understanding that he forgot I could feel pain too. “I don’t want the ring,” I said. Noah sat bolt upright. “Asteria Quinn, what do you mean?” I slowly turned the ‘dove’s egg’ diamond on my ring finger. “It means this thing feels heavy, suffocating me.” He stared at me for a long time, then suddenly chuckled, getting up and heading to the bathroom. “Alright, I know you feel wronged today. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to buy that handbag you’ve been eyeing for six months as compensation, okay?” The sound of running water filled the air. I looked down, each facet of the diamond reflecting my distorted face. 2 Noah and I were truly childhood sweethearts. Our families lived next door, and we were in the same class from kindergarten through high school. He was always dazzlingly brilliant, good grades, handsome, and when he played basketball, all the girls in school would secretly watch him. I was as ordinary as his shadow. After high school graduation, at a dinner party, he’d had too much to drink and cornered me in the karaoke lounge hallway. The neon lights flickered across his face. His voice hoarse, he’d said, “Asteria Quinn, let’s just make a go of it, you and me.” My heart pounded like a drum, but I asked, “Why ‘just make a go of it’?” He laughed, his warm breath on my ear. “Because we know everything about each other. It’s easy.” That night, he kissed me and whispered in my ear, “We’ll get married once things settle down.” Only later did I understand that “settle down” meant when he’d had his fun, when I was completely unable to leave him. Noah went to a top finance program, while I barely made it into a local university for journalism. For four years, we were apart. I wore out the seats on countless train trips between New York and Boston, while the number of times he visited me could be counted on two hands. Sophomore year, on Valentine’s Day, I secretly went to his school to surprise him. Beneath his dorm building, I saw him walk out alongside a girl. She wore a Chanel suit, her eyes curving into crescent moons when she smiled. Noah bent his head to listen to her, the curve of his profile so gentle it made my heart ache. I hid behind a tree and heard the girl say, “Noah, your little childhood friend didn’t call you today, huh?” His voice carried a smile. “Asteria is understanding. She knows I’m spending the day at an exhibition with you.” The girl looped her arm through his. “I’m so envious of her, so easygoing. If it were me, I’d be raising hell.” Noah flicked her forehead. “That’s why you’re not as sweet. Asteria never makes a fuss.” They walked away. I stood beneath the tree until my legs went numb. My phone showed a message he’d sent that morning: “Asteria, project team is working late today, can’t video chat. Get yourself something nice to eat.” I looked up and saw his social media feed updated five minutes ago. The girl had posted a photo, geotagged at the Waterfront Art Museum. “Thanks to a certain finance whiz for ditching work to walk around with me~” In the photo, Noah was bending his head, helping her adjust her audio guide, sunlight catching his eyelashes. I liked her post. Noah immediately messaged me privately: “Asteria? How do you have Willow as a friend?” My fingers trembled as I typed: “Last time your phone was with me, she called for you, so I added her.” “Oh. Willow has a child-like temper, loves to show off. Don’t take it to heart.” I didn’t reply. He sent another message: “By the way, her birthday is next month. What do you think I should get her? She seems to like that new Tiffany necklace.” I’d seen that necklace three times last week while browsing the mall. Finally, I typed: “Sounds good.” 3 Willow was a teammate Noah met during an international finance competition in his freshman year. A talented art student from a wealthy background, she opened a gallery after studying abroad. When Noah spoke of her, his eyes would light up. “Willow is the most spirited girl I’ve ever met.” At Noah’s onboarding celebration dinner, she walked over with a glass of champagne, sizing me up and down. She smiled. “You must be Asteria? Noah talks about you all the time. You’re… just like a girl next door.” I was wearing a new dress I’d bought for the occasion, but next to her haute couture, I felt like a clown who’d wandered in by mistake. Noah naturally put his arm around my shoulder. “Asteria isn’t quite used to these kinds of events, Willow. Please look out for her.” “Don’t worry,” Willow winked, leaning closer to me. “Asteria, I heard you work as a planner at a cultural company? My gallery needs some copywriting for its next exhibition. Want to give it a try? The pay isn’t great, but it’s an opportunity.” My nails dug into my palms. “No, thank you.” She didn’t seem offended, turning to Noah. “Your little childhood friend, she has spirit.” That night, after coming home, I asked Noah, “Does Willow like you?” He was unbuttoning his shirt and chuckled at my question. “What are you thinking? Willow and I are just buddies. If she were really interested in me, would she have waited this long?” “But her attitude towards me…” Noah hugged me from behind. “That’s just how she is, a spoiled princess, but she doesn’t mean any harm. Asteria, you never used to be so suspicious.” I fell silent. “Used to.” I’d never seen the light in his eyes when he looked at someone else before. 4 In my third year of work, I gritted my teeth and bought a small apartment. The down payment was from my own savings, hard-earned without a penny from my family. On the day I got the keys, I excitedly pulled Noah to see it. He walked around once, frowning. “It’s too far from my company. The commute would be over an hour.” “But it’s close to my company,” I said, pulling him towards the balcony. “We could put a small coffee table here and sunbathe together on weekends.” Noah was absentmindedly scrolling on his phone. “Willow’s gallery is looking for a new space recently. I’ve looked at a few places for her. Tomorrow, I have to go with her for a site visit.” My smile froze. “Tomorrow is Saturday.” “I know,” he put away his phone, ruffling my hair. “Be good, you go ahead and get settled. I promise I’ll come help you next week.” He left. I sat alone in the empty living room, my phone screen glowing. It was Willow’s latest social media post: “Why rely on others when you have Mr. Thompson? His efficiency is unmatched~” It was accompanied by a screenshot of her chat with Noah. Noah: “It’s too much for a girl like you to handle all this. I’ll help you oversee it.” Willow: “Oh, I couldn’t possibly be a bother [cute emoji]” Noah: “Why be so formal with me?” I turned off my phone and started painting the walls. Latex paint splattered on my face, mixing with tears, salty and acrid. That night, Noah called, his voice weary. “Ran around all day. Willow’s standards are really high; she wasn’t happy with several places.” I stared at the ceiling. “Noah, I strained my back today lifting heavy things.” “Oh? Is it serious?” He paused. “Maybe you should go to the hospital tomorrow? I really can’t get away this weekend.” “No need. I’ll be fine after some rest.” He let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good. Oh, by the way, Willow said she wants to treat me to dinner to thank me. Why don’t you come along? She said she wants to apologize to you for her bad attitude last time.” “No.” His voice deepened. “Asteria, Willow genuinely wants to be friends with you. Can you please stop being so resistant towards her?” I laughed. “Noah, are you my boyfriend, or hers?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Asteria Quinn.” He called me by my full name, which usually meant he was truly angry. “I thought you were understanding. I didn’t realize you could be so unreasonable.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580592”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The car crash, the night before my wedding, stole my legs. And every trace of expression from my face. After that, I never smiled at Alex again. Every day, he’d carry me out of bed, help with my physical therapy, and massage my legs before I slept. His attention grew more meticulous, almost bordering on desperate appeasement. I offered no resistance, no reply, not even sparing him a glance. Five years later, he finally broke. He’d drowned himself in liquor, kneeling before my wheelchair, his forehead pressed against the cold armrest. His eyes, bloodshot and brimming with despair, stared up at me: “Just tell me, what do I need to do? It’s been five years, Evie… Are we truly meant to live like this forever?” I slowly lowered my gaze, a cold smirk playing on my lips. It was the first time in half a decade I’d felt such a potent emotion towards him. “Don’t you get it, Alex?” I met his tormented gaze, each word a deliberate strike, “Between us, there’s only an endless war.” … Alex was utterly shattered. He clutched me fiercely, his grip so strong I thought my bones would shatter, his voice thick with tears: “Curse me! Hit me! Hate me! Just stop being a doll!” “Can’t we just start over?” Start over? I let him hold me, finding the thought utterly laughable. In the five years since that crash, Alex had dedicated everything, staying by my side without falter. From therapy massages to late-night vigils. Everyone praised his unwavering devotion. Even my usually doting parents chastised me for being ungrateful: “Stop tormenting him, just try to live a normal life.” But they would never know the truth behind that accident. That afternoon, five years ago, I finished work early, bubbling with excitement as I hurried to the bridal boutique. I wanted him to be the first to see me in my wedding dress. But outside the changing room, I heard the soft, simpering voice of Bethany, my best friend: “If I weren’t her best friend, would you break up with her and be with me?” Peeking through the crack in the door, I saw her wearing my wedding dress. Alex’s hand gently traced her waist. “Yes,” he replied without a second’s hesitation. A tender kiss brushed her lips. In that moment, my world imploded. I stumbled out of the bridal shop. My mind a blur, I drove away. Then, at the next intersection, I collided with an out-of-control truck. Alex’s tears streamed scalding hot onto my neck. Yet all I felt was a profound chill. He knew, of course. From the first moment I woke and looked at him, he understood. I knew everything. For five years, he lived with me, day in and day out, burdened by guilt. Everyone believed he was a man of integrity and deep affection. Only we both understood the unspoken truth: this was a silent, drawn-out torment. “That day at the bridal shop…” his voice was hoarse, “I saw you in the mirror.” My fingertips trembled. It was the first time in five years he’d brought up that day. “By the time I chased after you, your car was already gone.” He knelt by my wheelchair, his shoulders shaking. “Every day for five years, I’ve wondered, what if I hadn’t been so foolish? What if I hadn’t been soft-hearted and answered her that one word?” “But Evie, Bethany and I, we were over long before that.” He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, “You’re the one I love.” Watching his anguish, I suddenly found it absurd. He thought I still cared about his betrayal with Bethany. Cared if he still loved me. But when I witnessed that scene in the bridal shop, my love for him died then and there. Every time he massaged my atrophied legs, all I could think of was how those hands had caressed Bethany’s waist. When he pushed me to the hospital for check-ups, my mind replayed the moment he unhesitatingly agreed. If I hadn’t been crippled. They probably would have overcome all obstacles and been together by now. So, an endless war. That was my curse for him. Alex, exhausted from his outburst, slumped onto the sofa and fell into a heavy sleep. His phone vibrated persistently on the carpet, the screen lighting up and fading. On an impulse, I maneuvered my wheelchair over and picked it up. The number flashing on the screen, though unsaved, was one I could once recite by heart – Bethany. “Alex! Why aren’t you answering your phone! Is she the only one you care about?! Your son is dying—” Bethany’s voice on the other end was a frantic, piercing shriek, choked with tears, practically tearing through my eardrum. Son. The word was a poisoned icicle, stabbing deep into my heart. Freezing my blood in an instant. My fingers gripped the phone, icy cold, a bitter taste rising in my throat. “Then let him die.” I heard my own vicious voice, completely devoid of emotion. The other end of the line fell into abrupt silence. Then, Bethany found her outlet. My once closest friend unleashed a torrent of venomous curses: “Evie! It’s you! Why are you still clinging to Alex! Why can’t you just let us be happy! Why don’t you just die! Why didn’t you die in that crash five years ago! You’ll get what’s coming to you! You’ll burn in hell—!” What’s coming to me? Listening to her curses, I looked down, my other hand instinctively pressing against my cold, flat, numb abdomen. I remembered the doctor’s regretful yet brutal words when I woke five years ago: “Ms. Caldwell, the car crash caused a uterine rupture and severe hemorrhage. We… did our best. You won’t be able to have children in the future.” In that moment, I lost more than just my legs. I lost a child, barely conceived, who never got to see the light of day. And the right to be a mother. I chuckled softly into the phone. My voice was fleeting, like a wisp of smoke: “Bethany, my reckoning came long ago.” The moment you wore my wedding dress, and he answered, “Yes.” The moment I lost my child, forever broken. I’m already in this hell. What’s there to fear in dragging you all down with me? The next morning, after his fitful sleep, Alex reverted to his role as the impeccable husband. Gentle, patient. He meticulously tucked away all his pain and regret. The disheveled, vulnerable man from last night had vanished, evaporated like dew in the morning sun. Over these five years, his career had soared. Our home was spotless, tended by professional housekeepers and nurses. Yet, for my care, whenever he was home, he insisted on doing everything himself. Now, he knelt before my wheelchair, a warm cloth in hand, meticulously wiping each of my fingers. Every crease, every nail edge, was tended with painstaking care. The sunlight outlined his bowed profile, creating an almost devotional illusion. Breakfast was a porridge he’d cooked himself. He scooped a spoonful, naturally offering it to my lips: “It’s a beautiful day today. How about I take you for a stroll by the lake later?” I offered no reply, a silence he’d long grown accustomed to. He talked on, about new flowers blooming by the lake, about which tree had sprouted fresh buds. As he was about to wheel me out, his assistant rushed in, speaking in hushed tones about being unable to reach him, then pulled Alex aside for a private word. Alex’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, and he turned back to me with an apologetic look: “Something urgent came up at the company. I need to go.” He didn’t even have time to change out of his light gray loungewear, hastily following his assistant out the door. I watched him disappear, my heart clear with an indifferent certainty. It wasn’t about the company, of course. I knew well that over these five years, he’d never lacked for female company. I could sometimes catch the faint scent of perfume on his suits, a fragrance not my own. I remembered the subtle, hastily concealed scratch on his neck when he returned from a “business trip.” I’d also glimpsed the relentless message notifications on his phone, face-down on the table, quickly silenced. He thought he was a master of concealment, playing the role of devoted and repentant husband before me. But I’d long lost any curiosity to expose him. How many fleeting encounters or casual affairs he had outside meant nothing to me, no more than the clouds drifting by or the wind blowing outside my window. But a child—that was different. I recalled the tender, childish voice accidentally caught on his phone. Hatred, like a venomous vine, spiraled madly, suffocating me. Almost instinctively, I maneuvered my wheelchair back to the study and logged into my social media account, untouched for five years. Bethany’s social media account was public. I easily found the child. The boy in the photos looked less than two years old. He was held intimately in Bethany’s arms, the background a playground. Another showed Alex, dressed in casual wear, bending to wipe the boy’s brow. His profile revealed a truly relaxed tenderness I hadn’t seen in a long time. And countless fragments pieced together their happy family life – family restaurants, park picnics, birthday parties at home… I scrolled through the pictures, my face devoid of emotion. Only the fingers gripping the mouse were white from the excessive pressure. Five years I’d spent building a fortress of coldness, meant to ward off all pain. In this moment, hatred tore it open with a gaping, bloody wound. Why? Why, when I had lost my child and was forever stripped of the right to be a mother, Could they have a healthy, living child, who cried and laughed, and called him ‘Daddy’? The thought of a child, flowing with his and Bethany’s blood, growing day by day, softly calling them “Mommy and Daddy.” Receiving all their love and care… The image made my skin crawl. Alex returned in the dead of the third night. He carried the faint scent of disinfectant, silently knelt before my wheelchair, his hands clasped, knuckles white. “Evie,” his voice was terribly hoarse, “Bethany’s boy… had acute leukemia a few days ago. They fought for his life all night.” I watched him, this husband of mine, consumed with worry for my best friend’s son. “He’s out of immediate danger for now.” He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, searching my face for a flicker of emotion. I offered a cold, brittle smile: “Not dead? What a shame.” The air thickened, suffocating. Alex shot to his feet, his chest heaving, as if seeing me for the first time: “How can you say such a thing!” Alex’s eyes burned with disappointment: “I barely recognize you anymore, you used to be so kind!” “He’s just a child! He doesn’t understand anything! What has he done wrong?” “And what about me?” I looked up, my gaze like an ice-pick piercing him, “What did my unborn child do wrong?” He seemed choked, all anger trapped in his chest. “Yes, Bethany and I… it was wrong of me.” He turned his head, his voice sinking, offering an excuse: “After your accident, she blamed herself terribly, couldn’t get past it for a long time… Then she said she didn’t want anything, just wanted a child… She said she would never disrupt our lives…” I watched him scramble for excuses, then let out a low, bitter laugh. “Alex,” I choked back my laughter, my voice a whisper, yet each word a dagger to his heart, “Because of her, I lost my child, and I lost the right to be a mother forever.” “And now you tell me how noble and selfless she is, the woman who inserted herself into my friendship, and bore a child to my husband?” I stared at his suddenly pale face, each word a hammer blow: “You’re both despicable.” “Why do I rot in this abyss, while she gets to enjoy the full joy of motherhood?” “Why do I suffer in despair, my future shattered, while she finds solace and fulfillment through the child you stole together?” Five years ago, I was the brightest star of the ballet company, a swan under the spotlight. And now, this friend who once danced behind me. Not only wore my wedding dress and slept with my fiancé. But after I was crippled, she smoothly took my place on stage. I expressionlessly opened Bethany’s social media page. On the screen, she was wearing an elegant dance costume, demonstrating moves in a spacious, brightly lit dance studio, with the caption: “Thank you, my Mr. Caldwell, for giving me my second stage in life.” It was Alex, who, using our shared marital assets, had opened a ballet school for her. Scrolling further down. Under a pregnancy announcement from three years ago, it boldly read: “Bidding farewell to the stage, embracing the most beautiful role of my life.” Someone commented: “From principal dancer to the most beautiful mom, then founding a dance school – Ms. Hale is truly a life winner!” Life winner… Those two words were like poisoned needles, stabbing deep into my heart. I scoffed, looking at Alex, his face ashen: “She stole everything I once had – my stage, my glory, my love, my child, my healthy body… And I am trapped in this wheelchair, day after day, enduring your nauseating pity.” “You tell me, if you were me, how could you possibly be kind?” Alex stared at me, utterly speechless. I finally understood: hell wasn’t just the prison of a body. It was watching, with wide-open eyes, how the person who destroyed you, stepped over your corpse, and lived the life that should have been yours, glorious and unhindered. My curse seemed to have taken hold. Alex began to visibly waste away. Company affairs were demanding, and Bethany and the child also needed him. He began to “travel” frequently, his time away from home growing longer. Each return saw him disheveled, carrying the strong scent of disinfectant from the hospital. I suspected the child wasn’t doing well. Then, a number, dormant for five years, sent a message to my phone. It was Bethany. No words, just a series of photos. Alex asleep beside her, his tired profile etched with exhaustion. Another showed her, shoulder bare, curled in his embrace. Then came a message, dripping with undisguised triumph and provocation: “One child is too lonely; we plan to have another soon, a sibling for our son. Alex says this time, he wants a daughter.” I stared at the indecent images on the screen, feeling no anger, only disgust. When Alex returned that evening, dark circles shadowed his weary eyes. He still intended to massage my legs, but his movements were distracted. “Evie,” he began, his voice dry, “Leo’s illness… he needs constant care. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m just fulfilling my responsibility. I hope you… can understand.” He knelt, trying to take my hand, his eyes alight with that familiar urgency: “Don’t overthink this. I promise you, no matter what, you’re still the one I love most.” I listened to his performance in silence. Then, I picked up the tablet beside me and tapped the screen. One by one, Bethany’s photos scrolled clearly across his vision. The images were nauseatingly explicit. “Caring for a critically ill child in the hospital,” my voice was calm, yet laced with scorn, “and still finding time for… a romantic tryst with the mother of said child. Alex, you two certainly have appetites.” Alex’s face instantly went ashen, as if struck. Shame and embarrassment practically poured off him. He stammered, then finally found his voice, a raw urgency from having his facade ripped away: “Listen to me! It’s not what you think!” “Leo’s illness… it needs a bone marrow transplant! Bethany and I aren’t a match! The doctors said… that a sibling’s cord blood might be our only hope… we just have to… try for another child…” His voice trailed off, barely audible by the end, almost too ashamed to speak. I looked at him, suddenly devoid of even a cold smirk. “Get out.” The next day, I contacted my lawyer, Mr. Davies. I meticulously organized all the evidence and sent it to him. “Here are Alex’s bank card statements for the past five years. He used our joint marital assets to purchase property and luxury cars for Bethany, and also funded her dance school.” “This is a copy of Leo Caldwell’s birth certificate, with Alex’s name listed as the father. And here are surveillance screenshots of his frequent visits to Bethany and her son’s residence.” “The evidence is damning,” my voice was level, “I want to sue him for bigamy. Simultaneously, I want to file a pre-litigation asset preservation order to freeze all his and the company’s liquid assets.” “Furthermore,” I paused, adding with unshakeable resolve, “on the grounds of disposing of substantial joint marital property without spousal consent, I will file a civil lawsuit against Bethany, demanding she fully return all property, school investments, and large gifts Alex provided her.” “Immediately apply for asset preservation, and freeze her personal accounts and the dance school as well.” Mr. Davies was remarkably efficient. Or perhaps, the chain of evidence I provided was simply too perfect. Within days, the legal hammer fell swiftly. Bank and court officials arrived at the company simultaneously while Alex was in the midst of a crucial business negotiation. Overnight, all his accounts, equity, and even the funding channels for Bethany’s ballet school were frozen. To make matters worse, several key project partners simultaneously sent inquiries, trapping him firmly at the company. When he finally disentangled himself, storming home in a rage, He was met by a starkly clean, empty space. The living room, bedroom, walk-in closet… every trace of Evie was gone. The jewelry box was empty, and large sections of the wardrobe where I kept my clothes were bare. Even the bottle of my usual, faint white-floral hand cream on the bathroom counter had vanished. It was as if I, Evie, had never lived there for five years. Alex’s face instantly paled, his chest heaving as he roared at the empty house: “Evie!” Mrs. Gable, who had taken care of me for years, peeked cautiously from the kitchen, still holding a dishcloth. “Sir, you’re back.” “Where’s my wife?” He strode over, his voice tight with panic. Mrs. Gable flinched, then quickly answered: “The missus… the missus had the caregiver help her pack her bags this morning, and then she left. She… she didn’t say where she was going.” “Left?” A terrifying storm erupted in Alex’s eyes, “She’s in a wheelchair, where could she possibly go?! Why didn’t you stop her! Why didn’t you call me!” Mrs. Gable was about to stammer a reply. But Alex’s phone rang then. Hope instantly flared in his eyes as he pulled out his phone. The name flashing on the screen, however, was not the one he yearned to see. He frowned, picking up the call with extreme annoyance. The next moment, a woman’s utterly frantic shriek and sobs, even without speakerphone, echoed clearly through the silent living room. “Alex! Why are all my bank cards frozen?! The hospital said they’ll stop Leo’s medication if we don’t pay! He’s surviving on those drugs, he’ll die without money!” Bethany’s voice, distorted by despair, screeched: “Evie! It must be that wicked witch, Evie! May she burn in hell! Alex! That’s the Caldwell family’s only—” Alex seemed not to hear the wails on the other end, mechanically disconnecting the call and violently slamming his phone against the wall. The screen shattered on impact. He surveyed the suffocatingly empty house; Evie’s scent seemed to still linger in the air. But everywhere he looked, there was no longer any evidence of her presence. He stumbled into the bedroom, frantically opening every drawer, every closet door, even bending to look under the bed – nothing. “Evie…” he murmured, his voice hoarse, then slammed a fist against the cold closet door with a dull thud. His knuckles instantly swelled and bled, but he felt no pain, only the agony of an empty heart filled with cold air. Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway, too terrified to breathe. Just then, the doorbell chimed.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580591”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The new intern Lily White called herself a “clumsy beauty.” She shredded my bonus check from my fiancé Arthur, then teased, “Oops, I’m so silly—you won’t be mad, right?” At the company gala, she “tripped” naked into his arms. “This goofball can’t even walk yet—isn’t that awful?” Her team suffered constant blame. Every time a project was nearly done, she’d “accidentally” delete it all. In my past life, I fired her, but Arthur kept her as his assistant, accusing me of being harsh. The day we planned our wedding, she stopped my car, crying that she and Arthur were soulmates. I told her to leave—then she staged a runaway act and got kidnapped. Later, when I was pregnant, Arthur cut me open, saying I owed his “goofball.” I woke up again, avoiding the street where I first met Lily. Arthur’s grandfather had decreed: marry me, inherit the company. Now, with nothing left, I’ll watch how he protects his darling fool. … The smile on Mrs. Caldwell’s face faded when Arthur didn’t arrive with me, but instead brought an unfamiliar woman. “Arthur, family dinners are for family only. Who is this?” Arthur’s gaze swept over me, not lingering. “This is my assistant. We just finished a meeting, and she had nowhere to go, so I thought she could join us for a casual meal.” “Eva, you don’t mind, do you?” I smiled. “Not at all.” “If you don’t mind, why should I?” A “strategist,” isn’t she supposed to win over everyone important in his life? Mrs. Caldwell was a crucial piece of that puzzle. I was eager to see how she’d play her hand today. Seeing the room filled with elite relatives, Lily White, as the housekeeper prepared to serve tea, eagerly volunteered. “Auntie, I know a super pretty fancy way to pour tea! It makes the tea smell extra fragrant!” Mrs. Caldwell frowned but, out of deference to Arthur’s presence, said nothing. I watched silently as Lily picked up the porcelain teapot. Her wrist, clumsy, spun the pot three times in place, then, as if possessed, she half-stumbled, half-ran diagonally towards Mrs. Caldwell. Scalding hot tea splashed all over her. “Ah—!” Mrs. Caldwell cried out, jumping from her chair, burned. Lily, utterly terrified, flung her hand back. The teapot flew, precisely smashing a Ming Dynasty Five-Color Porcelain Vase on the antique shelf. It was Mr. Caldwell’s most cherished antique, a priceless treasure. Lily stuck out her tongue innocently at Arthur. “This teapot was just too slippery! It was bullying this little goofball!” I almost burst out laughing. In this life and the last, her idiocy always managed to redefine my expectations. However, I didn’t laugh, but someone else felt pity. Arthur completely ignored his scalded mother, anxiously grabbing Lily’s hand and blowing on her slightly reddened fingers. I was holding a damp cloth, kneeling to wipe the tea stains from Mrs. Caldwell’s dress. His roar, without warning, hit me. “Eva Carter!” “You were closest! Why couldn’t you catch the teapot? Are you a statue?!” “Now Lily’s hand is all red and burned too!” Mrs. Caldwell, hearing this, trembled with rage. “Arthur! I was the one scalded! And let me remind you!” “That was your father’s favorite vase! Either conjure up an identical one, or start figuring out how you’re going to beg your father for mercy on your knees!” Mrs. Caldwell’s words were heavy, outwardly scolding her son, but every syllable was a slap in Lily White’s face. Yet Lily, oblivious, failed to grasp that Mrs. Caldwell was reprimanding her, and instead defiantly shouted back at her. “Auntie, how can you talk about Arthur like that!” “It’s just a vase! If it breaks, it breaks! Are you blind, not knowing how to cherish the people around you?” The guests were silent, barely breathing, terrified of becoming collateral damage. Someone dared to stand on the Caldwell family’s turf, Gotham City’s wealthiest tycoon, and accuse his matriarch of being blind. Just as the tension reached a breaking point, a gentle, elderly voice drifted down from the second floor. “What’s all this commotion? Everyone standing around, such a lively scene.” Grandpa Caldwell, dressed in a traditional silk robe, leaning on a cane, descended with a cheerful smile. Mrs. Caldwell, seeing her father-in-law, swallowed her anger, forcing a smile onto her face. “Father, you’re here.” Arthur also reined in his cold expression, respectfully greeting him. “Grandpa.” Lily’s eyes lit up. She immediately pulled free from Arthur’s hand, skipping over to Grandpa Caldwell. She pulled out several bags of colorful items and offered them to him. “Hello, Grandpa! My name is Lily White, Arthur’s assistant! Nice to meet you! This is my gift for you!” I took a closer look, barely managing to keep a straight face. Five bags of gummy bears. Arthur’s face instantly darkened. He lowered his voice. “Where’s the ‘Whispering Pines’ scroll I told you to bring?” Lily puffed out her chest, self-righteously. “I sold it!” “That painting of yours was so dull and ugly! The boss at the antique market only gave me twenty dollars!” “Look at my gummy bears, they’re colorful and full of fruit! They cost me twenty-five dollars, and I even paid an extra five! Grandpa’s an elderly person; eating more fruit is good for your health!” I lowered my eyes, using the act of sipping tea to hide the corners of my mouth, which were dangerously close to my ears. That “Whispering Pines” scroll was an authentic masterpiece by Master Lin Feng from a previous dynasty, fetching a staggering thirty million dollars at auction just three years ago. Twenty dollars… sold… Grandpa Caldwell’s smile visibly stiffened, but he maintained his composure, graciously accepting the gift. “Very good, very good, you’re thoughtful, a good child.” He waved his hand, beckoning everyone. “Don’t just stand there, sit down, dinner’s about to be served.” The atmosphere finally eased, and everyone took their seats. But Lily, restless, pulled out a yellow charm paper from her pocket. With a solemn air, she circled Grandpa Caldwell three times to the left, then three times to the right, muttering incantations. Finally, she lit the charm paper, dropped the burning ashes into Grandpa Caldwell’s teacup, and stirred it with her finger. “Grandpa, this is a special good luck charm I got for you! Drink it, and it will cure all your ailments and grant you a long life!” She lifted the murky cup, about to force it into Grandpa Caldwell’s mouth. Even Arthur couldn’t stand it anymore. He yanked Lily back. “What are you doing?!” Lily blinked innocently. “Old people all believe in superstitions! This way I can win Grandpa’s favor! Aren’t I brilliant!” Seeing her like this, Arthur swallowed back the harsh words, his face grim as he apologized to his grandfather. “Grandpa, I’m sorry, she… she means well, but her methods are a little… misguided.” I let out a soft chuckle, lifting my own teacup. “Quite misguided, indeed.” “Grandpa spent fifty years researching aeronautical dynamics at the National Academy of Sciences; he detests anything to do with superstitious beliefs.” As my words fell, Grandpa Caldwell’s expression grew even more somber. He cast a cold glance at Arthur, then at Lily behind him, but said nothing. Just as the atmosphere threatened to plunge back into icy silence, I chose that opportune moment to have a housekeeper present the gift I had prepared. “Grandpa, knowing your appreciation for the works of Elder Zheng, I spent a long time collecting this complete set of ancient Greek philosopher’s dialogues. I hope you like it.” Grandpa Caldwell’s face, seeing the rare collection, brightened, his earlier gloom completely erased, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Oh, Eva, my dear, you’re too thoughtful!” “Today is the day you and Arthur set your wedding date; you shouldn’t have gone to such expense.” I smiled openly, my voice clear and bright. “Seeing you happy, Grandpa, is the best omen for today.” Mrs. Caldwell’s expression finally softened. She clapped her hands, instructing a housekeeper to open several bottles of wine. “Come, come! Let’s celebrate! I’ve brought out some of my cherished Vintage Chateau Margaux! Good days deserve good wine!” The atmosphere rekindled, everyone raising their glasses. But the moment the wine touched their lips, everyone’s expressions turned indescribably strange. The usually rich and smooth wine now carried a cheap, sickly sweet taste. Lily, seeing this, immediately popped up, eager for praise. “I added Sprite! Isn’t it sweeter and yummier now?!” “You guys must like me even more now, right? My favor points should be soaring!” Mrs. Caldwell clenched the stem of her wine glass, almost shattering it. This was wine she had bought at a high price, and before she could even taste a sip, Lily had ruined it all! She could no longer restrain herself, pointing at Lily and roaring at Arthur. “Arthur Caldwell! Get this woman out of my house! Now! Immediately!” “On such an important day, you bring this trashy, inappropriate person back to cause trouble!” “If you still consider me your mother, get her out right this instant!” Two well-trained security guards immediately entered from outside, their faces expressionless, and headed towards Lily. Just as she was about to be escorted out, Lily clutched her stomach and collapsed to the floor. “Oh, my tummy! The Caldwell family’s heir is going to be scared away!” She wailed hysterically. Arthur instantly rushed forward, shielding Lily tightly in his arms, his eyes bloodshot as he screamed at everyone. “Who dares touch her!” “She’s carrying my child!” One sentence, a double explosion. I was his fiancée, and today was supposed to be the day we set our wedding date. Yet, he announced, in front of all our relatives, that another woman was carrying his child. Several cousins stopped eating, simply staring, glued to the drama. “You… you…” Facing the questioning stares, Lily, protected in Arthur’s embrace, straightened up. “What are you looking at!” “What do you mortals understand!” “I’m the chosen strategist! The system told me that if you just listen to me, I can lead you all to financial freedom!” She jutted out her chin, looking utterly proud. The Caldwell relatives exchanged glances, their expressions a kaleidoscope of emotions. Financial freedom? The Caldwell family had already stood at the pinnacle of wealth twenty years ago. They needed this wild girl, who appeared out of nowhere, to lead them? Crazy. Arthur’s face was also strained, but he still stood firmly in front of Lily. “Mom! Lily’s just too naive; that’s why she says such silly things!” “Her heart is truly for the Caldwell family’s good! Why can’t you be more understanding of her innocent spirit?” “Innocent spirit?” Mrs. Caldwell scoffed. “I see a wolf’s ambition!” “Arthur Caldwell, do you even know what day today is!” Grandpa Caldwell could finally tolerate no more, striking his cane heavily on the floor. “Nonsense!” “Bringing such an ambiguous woman back, are you trampling on my dignity, or Eva’s dignity?!” The other relatives quickly chimed in. “Exactly, Arthur, you’re utterly out of line!” “Eva is such a wonderful girl; how will she face people after what you’ve done?” “Is she worth all this, for such a deranged woman?” Accusations flooded Arthur like a tide. He retreated, his face pale with fury. He looked up at me, then changed tack. “You say Lily is bad, you say I’m blind!” “Then ask Eva! She hasn’t said a word, so what right do you have to speak for her?!” Instantly, all eyes turned back to me. I immediately dropped my spectator’s grin, my wide smile quickly contracting, restoring the dignified demeanor befitting a lady of good standing. I set down my teacup and slowly rose, my gaze calmly settling on Lily. “You want me to disappear, to make way for you?” “Fine.” I paused, staring at Lily. “Give me everything you own in exchange.” Lily froze, seemingly caught off guard by my demand. Arthur, however, immediately frowned. “Eva Carter! She’s just a freshly graduated intern, she has nothing!” “Asking her for money, aren’t you trying to ruin her?!” Lily lowered her head, counting on her fingers, muttering to herself, “Three times one is three, three times two is eight, March 8th is International Women’s Day… anyway, as Mrs. Caldwell, I’ll have tons of money! It’s a bargain!” She pulled out her phone, and I immediately received thirty-nine payment notifications. All together, they totaled eight hundred eighty-six dollars and sixty cents. Quite auspicious, actually. “Take this measly money, I’m gifting it to you!” “From now on, Arthur is mine! You evil ex-wife, get out of our sight!” I took out my phone and replayed the recording of what she had just said. “I’ve got the evidence. Don’t come crying back to me later, even if you regret it.” Arthur pulled Lily even closer. “Eva Carter, I never realized you were so disgusting.” “You greedy woman, taking even eight hundred dollars from her. You’ve truly scraped the bottom of my barrel.” He paused, his voice turning cold. “You can leave now!” “Bang—!” A loud crash, making everyone jump. Grandpa Caldwell, shaking with rage, slammed his cane on the table, knocking over a wine bottle that shattered on the floor. “Who is leaving?” “Arthur Caldwell! Since you’ve chosen this fool, from today onward, you are banished from the Caldwell family!” Arthur froze, looking at his grandfather in shock. “Grandpa, do you know what you’re saying?” “I’m your grandson! And Lily’s carrying our Caldwell heir!” “What is Eva? At best, she’s a sponsored stray dog! You’re kicking me out for an outsider?” “Outsider?” Grandpa Caldwell scoffed. “Let me tell you, Eva Carter is not an outsider! And the Caldwell family does not need a brain-dead heir!” The assembled relatives dared not breathe, all looking down, pretending to inspect their plates. Arthur’s lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to argue, But meeting his grandfather’s resolute eyes, all words caught in his throat. Finally, he said nothing, pulling the still-giggling Lily along, and turned to leave. At the doorway, he paused, turning his head to glare at me. He spoke in what he thought was a low voice, gently comforting Lily. “Don’t worry, Lily, Grandpa is just having a hard time accepting this right now.” “Once our baby is born, and they see such a cute grandchild, their hearts will soften, and everything will be fine.” Hearing this, I couldn’t help but lower my head and chuckle. Wait for the baby to be born? Ha, too late! Arthur didn’t know. Within seven days, Caldwell Holdings would officially be renamed Carter Industries.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580590”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Digging through a dumpster for scraps, a stream of comments suddenly popped into my vision: “Isn’t that the billionaire’s kidnapped daughter? Poor thing!” “Her dad’s loaded, but she can’t even get a decent meal. What a tragedy.” “Her father, that big villain, is about to off himself. Saying all this is useless; she’ll just keep suffering.” Huh? So, my dad’s rich, and if I find him, I won’t starve? Following the on-screen prompts, I sprinted to a lavish villa estate and pounded on the grand gate. The man who opened it had a shock of white hair, but his face—it was undeniably, strikingly similar to mine, at least an eighty percent match. “Dad! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” 1 The man was dressed in a sleek, black silk pajama set, impeccably tailored, making his frame look surprisingly trim. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of what looked like extremely expensive, unreadable vintage wine. In the other, a small white pill bottle. His gaze was utterly vacant, devoid of any emotion—no anger, no surprise, not even a flicker of recognition for my face, which was almost a mirror image of his. He simply stared down at the pill bottle. Beside him, the butler gasped, his face paling, and lunged to grab my arm. His voice dripped with disdain. “Where did this wild child come from? Do you have any idea where you are? Mr. Walsh is not someone you can just call ‘Dad’!” The butler’s grip was surprisingly strong, digging painfully into my arm. But I’d grown up wrestling street dogs for food in alleyways, so my own strength wasn’t to be underestimated. I clung to the ornate, cold iron gate, refusing to let go. “I’ll call him whatever I want! That’s my dad! I can tell! He looks exactly like me!” I shrieked, my voice raspy, terrified that if I didn’t shout loud enough, my rich father wouldn’t hear me. The butler, his face contorted with fury, snarled, “Call security! Drag this lunatic away!” Just then, another line of blood-red text flashed across my vision, punctuated by glaring exclamation points. “Mr. Walsh, the ‘Walsh Tyrant,’ is three minutes away from swallowing those sleeping pills. Today is the anniversary of his late wife’s death; he tries to die every year on this day.” “This butler is working for the wicked stepmother, deliberately trying to drive away the real daughter so Mr. Walsh dies, leaving the fake daughter to inherit everything.” “If this gate closes, Mr. Walsh is doomed.” My heart plummeted. Three minutes? My golden ticket, my long-term meal plan—was it about to vanish? I’d spent eighteen years scavenging, scrounging for scraps. Now that I finally had a rich dad, how could I let him die before I even got one good meal? Summoning a surge of desperate energy, I clamped my teeth onto the butler’s hand, biting down with the same ferocity I used to fend off street dogs. He yelped in pain, his grip loosening just enough. I squeezed through the gate, a tiny, determined ferret. Instead of rushing to embrace my supposed father, I bolted towards him at a full sprint. My target was clear: the pill bottle in his hand. “Dad! Don’t die! I haven’t even eaten yet!” I slammed into his chest. The pill bottle flew from his hand with a sharp clatter, white pills scattering across the polished marble steps, rolling into the grass, lost to sight. Mr. Walsh, the man I’d just addressed, staggered back two steps, the red wine sloshing from his bottle, dark crimson liquid staining his expensive pajamas. It was then, for the first time, that he truly looked at me. His brows were furrowed so tightly they looked etched in stone. “Who let her in?” His voice was cold, carrying the unmistakable weight of someone long accustomed to authority, making me instinctively shrink back. The butler, clutching his bleeding hand, rushed over, his face a mask of terror. “Mr. Walsh, I’ll have her thrown out immediately! This wild girl came out of nowhere.” “I’m not leaving!” I latched onto Mr. Walsh’s leg, pressing my face, streaked with days of snot and tears, against his expensive-looking trousers. What was dignity, anyway? Could it be eaten? “Dad, I’m Daisy! I’m really your daughter! I haven’t eaten in three days. Can’t you just let me have one full meal before you kick me out?” I tilted my head back, my grimy face staring up at him, forcing out a few more tears to make myself look even more pathetic. Mr. Walsh looked down at me, his foot, which had been poised to kick me away, suddenly frozen. His gaze locked onto my face, specifically my eyes. In those dead, vacant eyes, something violently stirred, something explosive bursting to life deep within them. The comments floated past again. “The resemblance! It’s uncanny! Those eyes are exactly like his late wife’s!” “The Walsh Tyrant is softening! He loved that woman more than anything. This little girl is saved!” I seized the moment, crying even louder, my voice cracking. “Daisy?” Mr. Walsh’s voice was no longer icy, but laced with a faint, almost disbelieving tremor. I paused. That name was given to me by the old beggar who found me. He said the tattered cloth I was wrapped in had a strange leaf embroidered on it, like a daisy petal, so he just called me Daisy. “Yes, I’m Daisy.” I answered honestly, calculating whether this name might earn me a meal. Mr. Walsh’s body swayed violently, his face turning incredibly pale. He reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch my face, but his fingertips stopped an inch away, as though my face was a fragile illusion that would shatter at a touch. He murmured, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, yet filled with pain: “…Evening Bloom, it’s our Daisy… did you send her back?” The butler’s face also changed; he’d clearly heard the words, and a flicker of panic crossed his eyes. Sure enough, Mr. Walsh didn’t move his foot. His hand, hanging at his side, clenched into a tight fist, knuckles white. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold, to the butler. “Take her in. Clean her up.” 2 This villa was huge, like one of those bewildering mazes I’d seen outside amusement parks. The chandeliers on the ceiling shone brighter than any stars in the sky. But I wasn’t in the mood to admire it. I sat at a long dining table that could easily seat twenty people, a steaming bowl of seafood porridge placed before me. Mr. Walsh’s butler, Mr. Peterson, stood nearby, his gaze dark and suspicious. Ignoring the heat, I grabbed the bowl and began to gulp it down. The warm porridge slid down my starved throat, a comforting heat chasing away the icy grip of hunger in my stomach. It was unbelievably delicious—succulent shrimp and scallops, a luxury I wouldn’t even dare to dream of. “Slow down. No one’s going to take it from you.” Mr. Walsh sat at the head of the table, dressed in fresh clothes. He held a glass of red wine, swirling it gently, but not drinking, simply watching me. I chewed on a shrimp, mumbling, “No one’s going to take it from me? In the slums, if you’re a second late, there won’t even be a bone left.” Mr. Walsh’s fingers, wrapped around the wine glass, paused. His eyes darkened, as if my words had pierced him. “You’re called Daisy,” he stated, not questioning, but confirming, “Who named you?” “The old beggar who found me. He said when he picked me up, there was a daisy leaf embroidered on my swaddling clothes, so he called me Daisy.” I licked the bottom of the bowl, still wanting more, looking at him. Mr. Walsh didn’t speak, merely set his wine glass down with a heavy, thudding sound. The sorrow in his eyes was so thick it seemed ready to overflow, as if my very presence were a knife twisting in his heart. “Give her another bowl.” Mr. Peterson walked over reluctantly. “Mr. Walsh, this girl’s background is unknown. Shouldn’t we investigate first?” “I told you to serve the porridge.” Mr. Walsh’s voice was low, uninflected. But Mr. Peterson visibly shivered, immediately shut his mouth, and obediently went to fetch more. Is this the aura of a powerful CEO? I thought, a flicker of envy. Once I settled in, I’d try to scare people like that too. As I was on my third bowl, the sharp click of high heels echoed from the doorway. “Brandon, I heard we have a guest?” Before she even appeared, her voice, sickly sweet, reached us, sending shivers down my spine. The comment section exploded. “The wicked stepmother is here! That’s Valerie Sterling, the culprit who stole and abandoned the little girl back then!” “The girl behind her is Chloe Walsh, the current ‘heiress.’ Those two have been sucking Mr. Walsh dry for years!” “Watch out, Daisy! This woman is ruthless!” I put down my bowl and wiped my mouth. Showtime. The battle was about to begin. A woman in a white designer suit walked in, impeccably maintained, looking barely past thirty. Behind her was a girl in a princess dress, around my age, rather delicate-looking, but her eyes regarded people as if they were vermin in a sewer. The moment Valerie saw me, her smile froze. In that instant, I clearly saw a flash of terror in her eyes. “Brandon, who is this?” Mr. Walsh leaned back in his chair, not even bothering to lift his eyelids. “Just a stray I picked up.” Valerie visibly relaxed, then replaced her expression with one of disdain, covering her nose with a handkerchief. “Picked up? Brandon, why are you bringing just anyone into the house? She’s so filthy, who knows what diseases she might carry?” Chloe chimed in, “Yes, Dad, look how she’s made the dining table all greasy. It’s disgusting.” I looked at the two of them, a cold smirk playing on my lips. Disgusting? Just wait. I’d show them truly disgusting. I intentionally let out a loud burp, then grinned at Chloe, revealing two rows of white teeth still flecked with green onion. “Big sister, your dress is so pretty. Is it real silk? Can I borrow it to wipe my hands?” As I spoke, I lunged towards her. Chloe shrieked, darting behind Valerie. “Mom! Look at her! She’s a lunatic!” Valerie shielded her daughter, snapping, “Mr. Peterson! Get this lunatic out of here at once!” Mr. Peterson had been waiting for that command. With a wave of his hand, several security guards moved in to surround me. I didn’t budge. I just looked at Mr. Walsh with a pathetic, puppy-dog expression. “Dad, I’m still hungry.” Mr. Walsh finally reacted. He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping coldly over Valerie and Chloe, finally landing on Mr. Peterson. “Since when did you make decisions in this house?” The security guards’ steps halted abruptly. Valerie’s face paled. She forced a strained smile. “Brandon, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just worried she might hurt Chloe.” “She came back with me.” Mr. Walsh stood up and walked over to me. He towered over me, his shadow falling across me with a palpable sense of intimidation. He reached out, his long fingers cupping my chin, turning my face from side to side. “Since she called me Dad, she’s part of the Walsh family. Anyone who dares to touch her is touching me.” At those words, a pin drop could have been heard in the dining room. Valerie’s nails dug into her palms, and Chloe’s eyes glowed red with jealousy. The comment section erupted in cheers. “Mr. Walsh, the Tyrant, is awesome! That protective dad vibe is amazing!” “Valerie must be furious. All her hard work over the years, and she’s losing to a random wild girl.” “Daisy, quick! Hug that golden thigh! That’s your shield from now on!” I didn’t hesitate, seizing the opportunity. I wrapped my arms around Mr. Walsh’s arm, rested my head on his shoulder, and stuck my tongue out at Valerie and Chloe. “Hear that? I’m a Walsh! From now on, I can eat as many bowls of porridge as I want!” Mr. Walsh’s body stiffened. He made to push me away, clearly disgusted. But I clung on for dear life. No way was I letting go of this golden ticket. 3 That night, I was settled into a guest room. The room was vast, far bigger than the drafty shack I used to live in. The bed was so soft it felt like sleeping on clouds; I thought I might sink right into it. But I couldn’t sleep. Not because I was unaccustomed to it, but because the comments kept scrolling wildly. “Don’t sleep! Someone’s coming tonight to steal your hair for a DNA test!” “Valerie will definitely switch the samples to make the results show you’re not related.” “Once Brandon Walsh thinks you’re a fraud, you’re done for!” I sat up in bed. Trying to switch samples? Not on my watch. I slipped out of the room barefoot, making my way to Brandon Walsh’s bedroom door. It wasn’t locked, just a crack ajar. I cautiously peered inside. Brandon wasn’t asleep. He sat on the sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a photo frame. Moonlight streamed onto him, making his strong back look heartbreakingly solitary. The comments floated by: “That’s a photo of his late wife, Eleanor Walsh. He looks at it every night.” “He was planning to kill himself tonight, but he postponed it because Daisy showed up.” A pang of unease shot through me. This man, who seemed invincible, was clearly a mess inside. I pushed the door open and walked in. Brandon whirled around, quickly flipping the photo frame face down on his lap. “Who let you in?” “Dad, I can’t sleep.” I hugged my pillow, walked to him, and plopped down on the carpet. “This bed is too soft, my back hurts. Can I just sleep on the floor here?” Brandon frowned deeply. “Go back to your own room.” “No.” I refused to budge, a tactic I’d learned from street hustlers. “I’m scared of the dark. What if some bad person comes in to steal my hair?” Brandon actually snorted, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “This is the Walsh estate. Where would a bad person come from?” “You never know. Some people look human on the outside, but you never know what they are on the inside.” I said, meaningfully. Brandon was silent for a moment, then didn’t try to send me away again. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to gaze at the moon outside the window, the lines of his profile sharp and cold in the moonlight. I spread my pillow and lay down at his feet. A while later, I heard him ask in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Do you… really think you’re my Daisy?” He wasn’t asking about my name, but something else entirely. It was a strange question, but I could feel the intense pain mixed with a fragile hope in his words. I rolled over and looked at his profile. “Whether I am or not, won’t we know after a test tomorrow? But I need to be there for the whole thing. No one’s going to switch my DNA sample.” Brandon looked down at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “What do you know?” “I know someone doesn’t want me to be your daughter.” I didn’t spell it out, but Brandon, a man who’d clawed his way to the top in the business world, would get the hint. He snorted. “In this house, whoever I want to be my daughter, is my daughter.” Powerful. That night, I slept soundly. In the hazy depths of sleep, I felt someone gently placing a blanket over me. The movement was soft, a little clumsy, as if they were afraid to wake me.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580589”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The ‘first love’ of the city’s most powerful magnate had returned. He’d abandoned an international conference, eager to greet her at the airport. Everyone was buzzing, saying they were finally going to marry. As the most sensible “songbird” by his side, I decisively packed my bags and fled with my savings. Before leaving the country, I sent a farewell message to the magnate: [I’m going abroad, goodbye.] But I accidentally typed “astray” instead of “abroad.” Moments later, I was cornered by a group of men in black at the airport. The one leading them gritted his teeth, his voice laced with fury. “You’re really playing a wild game now, aren’t you?” 1 “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight…” Penny leaned in, curious. “What are you counting?” I pointed at my phone screen. “The number of digits in my bank balance.” Her jaw practically hit the floor. “Mr. Duff is that generous with you?” I offered a noncommittal shrug. Everyone in the city knew about Mr. Duff’s pampered little songbird. That would be me. He was usually aloof with everyone else, but he looked after me exceptionally well. My every wish was practically his command. That’s why I had happily lived in the Duff family estate for three years, letting him have his way. But lately, I’d been considering making a break for it. Because Mr. Duff’s ‘first love’ was returning home. Everyone knew that years ago, before Mr. Duff had consolidated his power, his first love was forcibly sent abroad due to family meddling. Their painful separation had left lingering bitterness. Now, Mr. Duff held immense sway, with enough influence to protect anyone he cherished. He could finally have his fairy-tale ending with his first love. But what about me, with no official title or standing? What would my ending be? Just as I was thinking this, a message from Mr. Duff popped up. [Tiger-stripe taro swirl or matcha mille-feuille? I’ll be home in an hour.] I pursed my lips. He was always like this. So thoughtful about these things, which seemed utterly out of character for him. After a moment, I replied: [Neither.] He didn’t reply again. But when he arrived home, he exacted his revenge by bringing two large bags of desserts. “Bad mood?” Mr. Duff naturally wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, his soft kisses brushing against my neck. In the space of my silence, his large hand expertly traced down my spine, effortlessly untying the ribbon at my back. I leaned my head against his chest, choosing to deny it. “No.” He didn’t press further, simply lifted me, placed me on the sofa, and leaned over me. “If something’s bothering you, you should tell me.” My legs felt like jelly. Mr. Duff always did this. He’d first stir me into a dizzying passion, then coax me into saying what he wanted to hear. I was utterly defenseless against him, only able to ask in a soft voice. “Mr. Duff… I was wondering, if I were to leave here…” My tentative question was cut short by a fierce, heavy kiss. It stole my breath, leaving me no strength to speak. “Don’t ask.” My mind was a blur, as if fireworks were exploding. Didn’t he just tell me to speak my mind? And now he wouldn’t listen? 2 The next morning, when I dragged myself out of bed, aching all over, Mr. Duff was already gone. Recalling his uncharacteristically intense behavior last night, my legs still felt weak. That stubborn man, always tormenting me. Would he be so unrestrained with his first love? I picked up my phone indignantly, only to find the group chat had blown up. Thanks to Mr. Duff, I’d long since infiltrated the city’s socialite circle. Several people were frantically tagging me. [Girls, who heard? Amelia came back early today, and Mr. Duff literally ditched an international meeting to pick her up at the airport!] [Where’s Serena? Why hasn’t she replied?] [Has her Mr. Duff been working her over so much she still hasn’t woken up?] [Seriously, Serena has it good. Such blessings.] [@Serena, if you don’t wake up, your man’s going to be stolen!] [Though I hate to be a downer, Serena, Mr. Duff’s actions definitely mean he hasn’t moved on.] [I heard Amelia saved his life when they were kids. If not for their families’ opposition, they would have been married long ago.] [Even though Mr. Duff spoils Serena like crazy, I don’t think he’ll ever marry her…] There were also a few photos someone had snapped. The background was the airport, a man and a woman, walking side by side. The man was pulling a suitcase, and the woman was smiling gently up at him. The sweet vibe screamed “couple.” The man was Mr. Duff. The woman… actually bore a striking resemblance to me. So this was his first love, Amelia? 3 As much as I disliked being conceited, Amelia’s face truly bore a five-point resemblance to mine. Mr. Duff had been treating me as a stand-in! Enraged, I simmered for a moment. After a day of agonizing thought, I decided to make a break for it. What, was giving his first love my spot not good enough for him? But with someone like Mr. Duff, running away meant acting first and informing later. Otherwise, if he knew I was planning to dump him, he’d never let me go. I started secretly selling off luxury items that were inconvenient to carry and depositing the money into another account. But when I sold the eighteenth bag, Mr. Duff found out. “Serena. Are you short on money lately?” He sat formally in his armchair, his expression unreadable. But the deep indent in the soft leather of the sofa hinted at his foul mood. I hung my head, speechless. Damn it! How was I supposed to know that bag was custom-made by a designer specifically for Mr. Duff? That cursed reseller had immediately put it up for auction! Mr. Duff showed no outward displeasure, glancing at the exquisitely crafted bag nearby. “Do you know your name was engraved on it?” Would I have dared to sell it if I knew that? I muttered to myself. Even though I was thinking that, in reality, I gently draped myself around Mr. Duff’s neck, tilted my head, and kissed his earlobe. “I’m sorry…” Three years together, I knew exactly how to please him. But this time, he did nothing. He merely squeezed my lower back in a punishing grip, taking a deep breath. “If you need money, tell me.” That very evening, ten million dollars appeared in my account. I silently counted my balance again. As long as I wasn’t too extravagant, this money was enough for me to live comfortably for the rest of my life. As for leaving Mr. Duff… I really couldn’t put it off any longer. 4 As soon as my visa came through, I started discreetly inquiring about Mr. Duff’s schedule. Rumor had it that after Amelia returned, she planned to visit her hometown, and Mr. Duff would accompany her. “Mr. Duff, I heard from Mrs. Davies that you’re packing your bags again?” Hearing my sudden question, Mr. Duff paused his movements. He frowned, pushing himself up. “You seem very interested in my affairs lately.” I took the opportunity to roll over, obediently resting on his chest, blinking my eyes. “Don’t you like it?” Mr. Duff clearly found this pleasing. He chuckled, reaching out to cup my waist. “No.” He pressed the back of my head, biting my earlobe, his other hand moving with just the right amount of pressure. I instinctively squirmed. But he held my shoulders, forcing me to feel his warm breath against my ear. “Serena, I love it when you care about me.” Trapped in his embrace, unable to move, I could only whimper a few times. In my mind, I silently scoffed, Why is he so mushy? He only says sweet things like this in bed. Pfft. 5 Mr. Duff told me he would be going on a business trip to a neighboring city for three days, starting the day after tomorrow. I began packing my luggage that very day. And, that morning, I sweetly and amiably saw him off. Hmph, calling it a business trip. Did he think I didn’t see Amelia follow him out right after he left? That stubborn man, going on a trip with his first love and keeping it from me. Good thing I was already planning my escape. Calculating the time, Mr. Duff should have already arrived in the neighboring city. I immediately dragged my luggage to the airport. Standing at the airport entrance, I looked back at this familiar city, sighing. Goodbye, my city. What could I do? I was just a gilded cage bird. After much thought, I still pulled out my phone and sent Mr. Duff a farewell message. [Mr. Duff, thank you for your care over the past three years, but I plan to cheat now. Apologies, I wish you all the best, goodbye.] After sending it, I quickly blocked and deleted him. My movements were so swift that I didn’t notice I’d made a typo. I turned off my phone and dragged my luggage through security. After getting my boarding pass, I comfortably lay in the waiting lounge, eating dessert. But after only a couple of bites, the big screen suddenly showed my flight was delayed. The reason for the delay was “passenger reasons.” When I asked, they said an important first-class passenger hadn’t arrived yet. I felt indignant. I bought a first-class ticket too! But the pretty attendant gently and apologetically brought me a plate of mini cakes. And then I was appeased. I started eating, planning how to spend the money I’d saved over the years. Just as I leisurely finished, a large group of men in black suddenly surged through the entrance. They surrounded me, their presence so overwhelming that the small fork in my hand clattered onto the table. Then, a familiar figure walked in, his face contorted with fury. He stalked towards me, practically gnashing his teeth. “Serena Jen, you’re playing quite loose now, aren’t you?” 6 Gasp. Could Mr. Duff teleport? How did he get here? But I couldn’t ask any questions. Mr. Duff had already grabbed me like a chicken by the neck. A group of bodyguards escorted me, making me feel like a misbehaving elementary schooler caught by their parents. People passing by frequently stared at me. I covered my face. So embarrassing, so utterly humiliating! Damn Mr. Duff. The next time he tries to kiss me, I absolutely will not open my mouth! But Mr. Duff’s aura was terrifyingly low throughout the journey, so I dared not speak. It wasn’t until I was escorted home and saw his expressionless face that I tentatively spoke. “Mr. Duff, I…” My unfinished sentence was quickly swallowed. Mr. Duff spun around, pinning me against the door, gripping my chin and kissing me fiercely. He roughly pried open my lips, more frenzied than any time before. Within moments, I was breathless, my entire body melting into his embrace. Only then did Mr. Duff release my mouth, scoop me up, and carry me upstairs. “You… what? Getting bold, Serena Jen?” He finished, even swatting my behind. I was utterly mortified, kicking my legs wildly. “Mr. Duff!” The next second, he pinned my legs and threw me onto the bed. With one hand, Mr. Duff held me down; with the other, he swiftly yanked off his tie. “What? Cheating? What ‘track’ are you trying to stray onto? Am I not enough to satisfy you?” After years of being together, he knew my sensitive spots intimately. His large hand, completely devoid of chivalry, covered me. My mind hadn’t even processed what he was saying, but my insteps were already curling unconsciously, and I was whimpering and crying. “Who’s cheating? Mr. Duff, gentle, please, ohh ohh ohh.” He chuckled, intensifying his movements. I nearly screamed. Physiological tears welled up, and I cried even harder. “Mr. Duff, you’re not playing fair, ohh ohh ohh!” … You really can’t provoke Mr. Duff in bed. By the end, I didn’t even have the strength to beg for mercy. I lay soft and limp in his arms, weakly scratching at him. Mr. Duff then fumbled for another one from the nightstand. “You just needed a good lesson.” 7 I drifted in and out of consciousness until dinner time. The phone screen on the bedside table lit up. I groggily picked it up, realizing it was Mr. Duff’s. Amelia had sent him several messages, which I didn’t dare open. Just as I was about to close it, I noticed Mr. Duff actually had me pinned to the top of his WeChat. I tapped it open, finding he had sent me many messages. The first few were all red exclamation marks. [?] [Are you serious?] […] [You actually blocked me?] [Serena Jen, unblock me right now!] … [Who is he?] [Can’t we talk about this?] [You really did it.] [You just wait.] I was surprised. How could he have sent so many messages, knowing he was blocked? I scrolled up through a mountain of messages. Finally, I saw the message I’d sent right before I blocked him. [Apologies, I plan to cheat now.] Plan to cheat now… cheat now… now. Miss Manners was quite polite, wasn’t she? OMG. Didn’t I mean to say go abroad? How could I make such a huge blunder?! No wonder Mr. Duff was so angry. I had been wondering if he simply couldn’t bear to lose me. But if he couldn’t accept that the woman he was keeping had cheated on him, well, that made perfect sense. As I stood there in shock, Mr. Duff rolled over beside me and pulled me into his arms. He squinted at the phone in my hand. “What are you looking at? Checking up on me?” I sheepishly put the phone back on the nightstand. “Hardly.” I knew my place as the sugar baby to the sugar daddy. He pinched my waist. “I think you dare to do anything.” Feeling his hand on me, I instinctively flinched. “Again, already?” Mr. Duff raised an eyebrow. “Not enough?” I didn’t speak. He already pushed himself up. “I’m not done.” I closed my eyes. How could one man have so much stamina?! 8 It wasn’t until I got up and opened my own phone that the realization hit me. Wait. How did I open Mr. Duff’s phone just now? I entered my own password. How was his password also my birthday? But I didn’t ponder for too long. Mr. Duff had already put on his trousers and buckled his belt. “I need to go out for a bit. Don’t wait up for me to sleep tonight.” Hearing the word “sleep,” a shiver ran down my spine, my legs still weak. No way I’d wait up, absolutely no way. Noticing the change in my expression, Mr. Duff leaned down and kissed me soothingly. “If you still want to go abroad, wait until I’m done with work, and I’ll go with you. Don’t cheat again.” He chuckled softly. I bit him indignantly. “You said it again!” Mwah! He actually laughed at me for half an hour about that “cheating” typo, even after I explained I meant to go abroad! Mr. Duff quickly hurried out the door. Hmph, dressing himself up so handsomely. Just because Amelia sent him a few messages? Getting all worked up like that. Stubborn man. Even if I wasn’t going to cheat, I wouldn’t just sit around and do nothing! I indignantly opened the socialite group chat. They were buzzing about Amelia heading straight to the jewelry store after returning from her hometown alone. [Didn’t they say they were going to her hometown together? But Mr. Duff came back first this afternoon, and Amelia only returned much later by herself.] [I bet they had a spat on the way, throwing a fit.] [Amelia going to the jewelry store must mean Mr. Duff is buying something to appease her.] [Exactly, exactly! Haven’t you heard? Mr. Duff’s car was also heading towards the jewelry street. So late, such a coincidence—what else could it be for?] [What about Serena? Mr. Duff came back this afternoon to find Serena, right?] [Ugh, don’t mind me saying this, but when a man gets frustrated by his first love, he takes it out on his little songbird. Isn’t that standard procedure?] [Tsk, you’re right.] [Poor Serena has been missing for several hours again.] [Mr. Duff’s stamina is truly unmatched by ordinary men…] …A lot of chattering. The latest message was— [No, girls, oh my god, my friend at the jewelry store just messaged me—Mr. Duff bought Amelia an engagement ring!] [Apparently it’s a custom-made one! Engraved with Amelia’s details!] My heart sank as I read the messages. Following closely was a picture. It was a blurry candid shot. But I could make out Mr. Duff and Amelia together at the engagement ring counter. On the counter was a card, which read: [Customization Request: Customer’s Birthday: 08/06, Scalloped edge.] Damn it. Amelia’s birthday was the same as mine? So Mr. Duff’s phone password wasn’t my birthday. It was Amelia’s birthday! I silently looked at the smiling faces of the two people in the photo. An indescribable emotion spread through my heart. He had just said he’d go abroad with me, and now he was buying someone else an engagement ring? Mr. Duff’s words were all bullshit. Pfft, pfft, pfft!

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580588”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Online, a burning question once popped up: “What do you do when you’ve played the fake sister to a top-tier billionaire for ten years, and the real heir finally comes home?” The top-voted answer was a succinct two words: “Run. Fast.” My finger hovered over that reply on the screen for a long time before I finally hit ‘like’. But I couldn’t run. Because I wasn’t just Robert Marston’s fake sister; I was his dog, his blade, and the only tranquilizer in the rotten, opulent world of the Marstons that allowed him a moment of peaceful sleep. Just moments ago, I’d personally destroyed a priceless hard drive with concentrated aqua regia. It was Robert’s final ticket to send a competitor straight to hell. And ten minutes after I’d dealt with that “trash,” the anonymous exposé hit my phone’s homepage: The Real Marston Heiress Is Returning. Luella Vance’s Days Are Numbered. I sniffed the faint, acrid scent lingering on my fingertips and smiled. My days are numbered? Maybe. … I’d lived in the Marston mansion for ten years. The outside world whispered that Robert doted on his sister. But I knew it wasn’t doting. It was… tending. Like livestock. It was three in the morning, in the private lab on the top floor of Marston Industries’ corporate tower. The exhaust fan hummed, its drone barely masking the pungent chemical smell with a special air freshener system. I peeled off my goggles, then the ill-fitting hazmat suit, revealing a custom evening gown that felt completely out of place. “Cleaned up?” Robert sat on a leather sofa nearby, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His voice was hoarse, carrying a post-coital languor and a chilling edge. Robert Marston. The ruthless head of the Marston dynasty in Sterling City, a man who’d clawed his way out of the slums, a madman, and for the past decade, my “brother.” “Hydrofluoric acid and hydrogen peroxide. Not a trace left,” I said, scrubbing my unblemished fingers under the faucet again and again. “The data on that hard drive? Not even a miracle could bring it back.” Robert gestured. “Come here.” I obeyed, walking over. He pulled me into his lap, burying his head in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. “Smells like chemicals,” he grumbled, though his arms tightened around me. “Disgusting, Luella.” “That’s the smell of your power, Robert,” I corrected him, my face a blank mask. Robert chuckled, the vibration in his chest sending a shiver up my spine. “These past ten years, without your hands, how many nights of sleep would I have lost?” I said nothing. I’d been the most inconspicuous child in the orphanage. Robert took me home when I was ten. He’d just taken power then, besieged on all sides. He didn’t need a sniveling sister; he needed a confidante, someone utterly clean, utterly loyal, a “shadow” who could handle his dirtiest work. I had a knack for chemistry. He got me the best tutors, built me the best lab. I didn’t disappoint. I learned to concoct hallucinogens that could drive someone insane with a single breath, how to assemble powerful explosives from common household items, and how to make bodies and evidence disappear completely. I was the Marston heiress, and Robert’s personal “cleaner.” Until that post appeared. On the drive back to the mansion, I sat in the passenger seat, my phone screen glowing. The anonymous forum post had exploded. Poster: [INSIDER INFO! The real heiress has been found! Rumor has it she was kidnapped to the borderlands back then, has a crescent-shaped birthmark on her neck! Mr. Marston has already sent people to pick her up!] 1st Comment: [Is Luella Vance screwed? Squatting for so many years, Mr. Marston is a ruthless man, won’t he flay her alive when he finds out the truth?] 2nd Comment: [Heard Luella was from an orphanage too, tsk tsk, time for the country bumpkin’s Cinderella dream to end.] … 188th Comment: [Bet you a bag of chips Luella gets tossed into the ocean for the fish.] I switched off the screen and gazed out at the blurring city lights. “Robert,” I said suddenly. He was resting his eyes, but didn’t open them. “Speak.” “I want to study abroad.” The air in the car instantly solidified. Old Robert, the driver in the front, visibly flinched, and the car swerved slightly. Robert slowly opened his eyes, his gaze, black as midnight, locking onto me. The warmth in them vanished, replaced by an arctic chill. “What did you say? Say it again.” “I want to study abroad.” I forced the words out, my nails digging into my palms. “My chemical research has hit a wall. There’s a professor overseas…” “Screech—!” The Maybach slammed to a halt at the roadside. The privacy partition rose, leaving just him and me in the confined space. Robert’s fingers clamped around my chin, his grip so tight I thought my bones might shatter. He leaned close, his eyes as menacing as a territorial beast. “Luella, who put that idea in your head? Hmm?” “That forum post? You saw it?” My pupils contracted. He knew. “You think the real one’s back, and you need to clear out?” Robert scoffed, his thumb tracing my lower lip, his voice dangerously intimate. “You’re my property. As long as I don’t let go, no one can replace you. Study abroad? Don’t even think about it. For your entire life, you’ll stay in the Marston mansion, by my side. Nowhere else.” His kiss descended, a punishing bite laced with the acrid taste of stale cigarette smoke. I closed my eyes, a cold dread seeping into my heart. He was lying. If he truly didn’t care about the real heir, why had he been frequently deploying private jets to the borderlands these past few days? Why was there a detailed investigation report titled Jenny in his study? He was soothing me. Or rather, he was keeping me stable. After all, I knew too many of the Marston family’s secrets. Until that “real sister” fully took over, I, the “fake sister,” couldn’t be allowed to cause trouble. 2 The day the “real heiress” returned was a lavish charity gala. Robert Marston never went into battle unprepared. If he dared to present that girl in such a setting, it meant he’d made exhaustive preparations. I wore the black velvet gown Robert had personally chosen, clinging to his arm, playing the part of the demure, aloof, and untouchable Marston heiress. Until the grand doors swung open, and all the spotlights in the room converged on that girl. Her name was Jenny. She stood there, timid and uncertain, in a faded white dress, like a delicate wildflower swaying in a storm. But the moment she raised her head, I heard gasps ripple through the room. The resemblance. It was uncanny. Not to me, but to Robert in his youth. The same innate coolness and stubbornness in her eyes, as if carved from the same mold. More importantly, when she tilted her head slightly out of nervousness, a crescent-shaped red birthmark on her neck stood out glaringly under the lights. It was the unique mark of the Marston family’s long-lost daughter. And it was something I, the “imposter,” absolutely did not possess. Robert’s arm stiffened for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction, but he still pushed me away, striding towards the girl. “What’s your name?” Silence descended, Robert’s voice echoing through the ballroom. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed, her voice trembling. “Jenny… Jenny Vance.” In that moment, I became the biggest joke in the room. The whispers of the socialites surged like a tide. “Look at Luella, her face is white as a sheet.” “A fake is always a fake. The real one shows up, and the imposter’s true colors are revealed.” “How do you think Mr. Marston will deal with her? All these years, the money spent on a fake must be staggering.” I stood my ground, picked up a glass of champagne, and drained it in one gulp. The sharp, burning liquid slid down my throat, suppressing the stinging in my eyes. I didn’t envy Jenny. I was just afraid. I knew how Robert treated traitors and the useless. Those hard drives I’d destroyed, those people who’d simply vanished from the face of the earth, were all grim precedents. That night, Jenny moved into the Marston mansion. And, more strikingly, into the master bedroom next to Robert’s – a forbidden zone even for me. I was relegated to a guest room. The staff, masters of opportunism, immediately diverted the bird’s nest soup originally meant for my room to the master suite. “Miss Vance, I’m so sorry, but the young lady just returned and is a bit frail. This is the only bowl of bird’s nest we have.” I looked at Martha’s smirking face. “It’s fine, I don’t care for sweets.” Closing the door, I pulled a prepared black backpack from under the bed. Cash, a fake passport, several high-concentration anesthetics disguised as lipstick, and a miniature smoke bomb I’d concocted myself. This was my escape route. I’d hoped I wouldn’t need it, but now, it seemed I had no choice but to use it. Late that night, as I opened my door, I bumped into someone. Jenny. She was wearing silk pajamas, holding a glass of warm milk, standing in the dim light of the hallway. There was no trace of the timidity she’d displayed at the gala. She looked at me, a strange, twisted smile playing on her lips. “Going somewhere so soon, big sister?” Her voice was soft, yet it carried an indescribable chill. I frowned. “Move.” Jenny took a step closer, her gaze falling on my backpack, her eyes greedy and malicious. “How could someone like Robert Marston have kept a fool like you for ten years? You think you can just run away?” She reached out, her long fingers lightly tracing my cheek, her nails sharp. “If I were you, I’d get on my knees and beg for mercy. Maybe I’d be merciful enough to leave you a whole body, considering you’ve worn the Marston name for a decade.” I grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply. “Ah!” Jenny screamed, the milk spilling to the floor. “What are you doing?!” A furious roar echoed from the staircase. Robert strode up, pushing me aside and shielding Jenny behind him. “Robert… she… she called me a wildling, said I didn’t belong…” Jenny clutched her wrist, tears instantly welling up, a picture of delicate sorrow. I watched the scene coldly. It was a cliché, a tired old trick. But in this house, cliché tricks often worked best, because the judge was already biased. Robert turned, his eyes fixed on me as if I were already dead. “Luella, apologize.” I stood tall. “I did nothing wrong.” “I told you to apologize!” Robert’s voice rose a few octaves, laced with unquestionable authority. I looked at the man I’d called brother for ten years. The last sliver of hope in my heart was extinguished. “I’m sorry.” I lowered my head, my voice so calm it surprised even me. “I shouldn’t have soiled the young lady’s dress.” With that, I turned and went back to my room, slamming the door shut. From outside, I could faintly hear Robert’s low murmurs, soothing Jenny. I leaned against the door, slowly sliding to the floor. It wasn’t sadness. It was clarity. Luella, wake up. This was never your home.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580587”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Sebastian had changed. The man who used to greet me with a boundless, golden-retriever warmth now sat in cold silence on the sofa, legs crossed, holding a magazine he’d never read. His gentle face was a stony mask; his eyes glared as if I were a stranger—or worse. Just as I began to speak, my vision glitched. Lines of text floated before my eyes: 【THE MALE LEAD IS REBORN! DON’T LOOK BACK AT THAT TOXIC WOMAN!】 【LAST LIFE HE DIED ALONE FOR HER—NOW MAKE HER PAY!】 【TIME FOR REVENGE!】 I glanced from the floating comments back to Sebastian, still posed like a brooding CEO on our couch. So he’d been reborn. And I was apparently the villainess in his revenge story. How… amusing. A past life? If my memory served me right, Sebastian had a full physical just last week. He was as healthy as a horse; he didn’t even have an ulcer, let alone stomach cancer. And me with my old flame, watching fireworks? My so-called “first love” was now a balding, pot-bellied man. Looking at him for too long was a genuine health hazard for my eyes. But clearly, Sebastian believed it all. As I approached, he didn’t leap up to take my purse like he usually did. Instead, he coldly turned a page, the paper crackling under the force of his grip. “Aurora. You’re back.” Listen to that tone. It used to be “sweetheart,” then “honey,” and now it was the formal, dismissive “Aurora.” I wasn’t annoyed. I casually tossed my limited-edition handbag aside and gave him a smirk. “What, no dinner tonight?” The old Sebastian would have been scrambling to the kitchen, nervously asking if the soup was seasoned to my liking. But this new Sebastian closed the magazine with the grace of someone signing a billion-dollar deal—a grace slightly undermined by the fact that he was still wearing his pink apron with a teddy bear print on it. “I didn’t cook,” he said, lifting his gaze. His eyes were simmering with a carefully contained rage and disgust. “Aurora, I am not your maid. And I’m certainly not some tool you use to blow off steam whenever you feel like it.” The comments above his head exploded. 【BADASS! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT! SHUT HER DOWN!】 【HE’S FINALLY STANDING UP FOR HIMSELF! THAT DELIVERY, THAT PRESENCE! OSCAR-WORTHY!】 【ASK FOR A DIVORCE! NOW! LET THAT TOXIC WITCH REGRET IT!】 I raised an eyebrow and walked right up to him. Sebastian flinched instinctively, his body tensing like a cat about to hiss. This “rebirth” thing seemed to have some serious side effects, including a full-blown stress response. I reached out, my fingertips lightly tracing the hard line of his jaw. I felt a tremor run through him—a physical rejection—but deep in his eyes, there was a flicker of something else, something complicated and unreadable. “No dinner is no dinner. Why the attitude?” I pulled my hand back and turned towards the kitchen. “It’s fine. I’m not hungry anyway.” Sebastian froze. According to the script—or at least, according to the spoilers in the comments—I was supposed to fly into a rage. I was supposed to throw a cup of hot tea in his face and humiliate him for being a useless freeloader. But I didn’t. I opened the fridge, took out a bottle of ice-cold water, twisted the cap, and took a long sip, my eyes tracking his reflection in the polished steel. Sebastian was staring daggers at my back. The comments were just as baffled. 【What’s happening? Why isn’t she following the script?】 【Shouldn’t she be having a meltdown? This is way too calm.】 【Wait… did she get reborn too? No way, this is a solo-reborn plot!】 I smirked to myself. Who said I was the villain? This silly pup was the one who’d cooked up this whole tragic melodrama in his head. When we got married, it was he who had chased me relentlessly, standing in the pouring rain for three hours, begging me to give him a home. I might have a short fuse and be a bit of a workaholic, but I had never, ever mistreated him. His monthly allowance was seven figures. I supported whatever he wanted to do—except for trying to burn down the kitchen. I spoiled him rotten. And this was my reward? The ungrateful brat wakes up from a nap, slaps the “toxic woman” label on me, and plots my downfall? I carried my water back to the living room and sat in the armchair across from him, crossing my long legs in the perfect picture of a heartless capitalist. “Alright. What do you want?” Sebastian took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for battle. From the depths of the sofa cushions, he pulled out a crumpled piece of printer paper and slapped it onto the coffee table. The gesture was powerful, though the grease stains on the paper kind of ruined the effect. “Divorce papers.” Sebastian bit out the words, his voice trembling with either rage or excitement, I couldn’t tell which. “Aurora, I want a divorce. I’ll leave with nothing. I don’t want a single penny of your money. All I want is my freedom.” The comments erupted in celebration. 【FLOWERS! CONFETTI! THE DIVORCE IS HAPPENING!】 【THAT’S OUR GUY! HE’S GOT DIGNITY! NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE UNDERDOG!】 【FREED FROM THIS GILDED CAGE, OUR MALE LEAD IS ABOUT TO BUILD HIS BUSINESS EMPIRE!】 I glanced at the paper. The handwriting was a mess, like it had been scrawled in a hurry. The terms were brutally simple: he wanted nothing but a clean break, a quick escape from my clutches. I set down my water bottle, leaned forward, and looked him straight in the eye. He squirmed under my gaze but forced himself not to look away, the veins in his neck popping with the effort. “You’re sure about this?” I asked. “I’m sure!” he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. “For three years, I’ve endured your coldness, your neglect! I’m sick of being your accessory! I’m a man, Aurora! I have my pride!” He sounded so passionate, you’d think I spent the last three years whipping him daily. “Fine.” I pulled a pen from my purse, uncapped it, and signed my name on the document with a smooth, decisive flourish. “You want to leave? I’ll let you.” Now it was Sebastian’s turn to be stunned. He’d probably expected me to shred the paper, to mock him and tell him he couldn’t survive without me, maybe even lock him in the basement like the comments suggested. He never, ever imagined I would agree so easily. So quickly it was as if I were tossing out last season’s clothes. Sebastian stared at my signature, his face draining of all color. His lips moved, but no sound came out. The comments went silent for a beat, then exploded with even more fervor. 【WHOA? That easy?】 【Something’s wrong. This woman is definitely plotting something!】 【BE CAREFUL, SEB! IT’S A TRAP! SHE’S TRYING TO PLAY HARD TO GET!】 I capped my pen, stood up, and looked down at him. “Pack your things and be out by tonight. That work for you?” Sebastian’s head snapped up, and his eyes were suddenly red-rimmed. That abandoned puppy look was back, but he quickly masked it, forcing out a stiff reply. “No problem! I’m leaving right now!” He ripped off the apron, threw it violently onto the floor, and stormed into the bedroom. Two minutes later, a symphony of crashing and banging erupted from the room, sounding less like packing and more like demolition. Meanwhile, the comments scrolled past in a triumphant wave of 【CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ESCAPE FROM HELL!】 The bedroom door flew open again. Sebastian emerged, dragging a massive suitcase, his spine ramrod straight as if he were marching off to war. As he passed me, he hesitated for a fraction of a second, almost as if he was waiting for me to say something, to ask him to stay. I didn’t move. I just glanced down at my phone and said coolly, “Don’t forget to close the door on your way out.” SLAM! The front door slammed shut with enough force to shake dust from the ceiling. I walked to the window and watched his lonely figure drag the heavy suitcase down the street. The comments were still celebrating his glorious liberation. 【HE’S FREE! THE WORLD IS HIS OYSTER!】 【NEXT STOP: THE LOTTERY OFFICE FOR THE WINNING TICKET, THEN A HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF REED CORP!】 【CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THAT WITCH CRYING AND BEGGING HIM TO COME BACK!】

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580586”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was the biological daughter the Winslow family lost eighteen years ago. The System told me that in order to survive, I needed only one thing: genuine acceptance from my family. For three months, I tried to become whatever they demanded. When my father told me I had to prove my worth before I could earn a seat at the Winslow table, I went to his corporate dinners, drinking glass after glass of scotch on his behalf until my stomach lined with ulcers and hemorrhaged. When my mother complained that I was unrefined and unpresentable, I practiced posture and etiquette until my knees were bruised black and blue. When my brother feared that my sudden return would break Daphne’s heart, he made me lie at the welcoming gala, telling the press and society guests that I was just a low-income charity student the Winslows had graciously sponsored. I thought if I was obedient enough, they would eventually look at me and see their daughter. Then came the night of Daphne’s nineteenth birthday. She was supposedly abducted by armed kidnappers who demanded that I go alone to rescue her. Logan gripped my shoulders with bloodshot eyes, begging me. “Save her, Callie. Please. Bring her back, and I swear—I’ll acknowledge you as my sister.” I believed him. I drove to the abandoned warehouse alone. A blow struck the back of my neck, and when I woke, I was bound tightly to a wooden chair in the dark, skin tearing against coarse rope. Then the overhead floodlights blazed on, and confetti showered over me. Daphne, completely unharmed in an immaculate silk dress, threw herself into my mother’s arms, giggling. “Congratulations, Callie! You passed the test.” Logan let out a relieved breath. For the first time since I had arrived, he reached out and patted my head. “From now on, you’re officially a Winslow.” Before the tears could fall from my eyes, the cold, metallic voice of the System echoed inside my mind: “Warning: Acceptance Rating reset to zero.” “Detected emotional components from target subjects: Utility, Pity, Patronage. Genuine familial acceptance: Not found.” “Mission failed. Life countdown initiated: 12 hours.” … 1 Metallic confetti clung to my hair. A sliver of foil slipped into the open cut on my wrist, glued fast by sticky blood. I stared at Logan’s hand. He had just touched my head. For three months, I had begged and bled for that single word—”sister”. It was finally handed to me. Yet the System called it what it was: charity. A scrap thrown to a stray dog. Daphne buried her face in our mother’s chest, sobbing theatrically. “Mom, I was so terrified. I just needed to know if Callie really cared about me as family. If she hadn’t come, I would’ve known she hated me.” Patricia stroked her hair, soothing her gently. “Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t cry. Today is your birthday.” Then Patricia’s gaze drifted toward me, her brow furrowing with cold irritation. “Callie, what is that look on your face?” I parted my lips, but my throat was parched and raw. The countdown ticking in my ears drowned out everything else. I had genuinely believed I was going to die in this warehouse. I had prepared myself for the end. To them, it was just a party game. A test to see how docile I could be. Charles Winslow stood a few feet away, checking his platinum watch. “If the drama is over, let’s head back. The guests are waiting.” He glanced down at the blood dripping from my wrists, his mouth twisting in mild distaste. “It’s just a scratch. Don’t go smearing it all over the car.” I looked down at my hands. The rope burns were deep, raw flesh weeping crimson. I had been tied up here for over half an hour, cold and terrified. Not a single person had come early to untie me. Because they had all known it was fake. I was the only one who didn’t. Logan finally stepped over to untie the knots. His hands were gentle, but my limbs were so numb that the moment I stood, my knees buckled. He caught my arm. “Come on, Callie. Don’t make a scene. It’s Daphne’s big day. Try to be a little gracious.” I looked straight into his eyes. “When you said you accepted me just now… did you mean it?” He froze. For a brief, pathetic fraction of a second, my heart lifted. “Maybe”, I thought. Maybe the System was wrong. Maybe human emotion was too nuanced for an algorithm to measure. Logan looked away. “Look, it’s Daphne’s birthday. Don’t push everyone for promises right now.” My heart plummeted straight through the floor, a physical ache cramping deep in my gut. Daphne dabbed at her eyes and walked over, taking my limp hand in hers. Her fingers were spotless, her nails adorned with tiny seed pearls. “Callie, let’s go cut the cake together. You passed the test. We’re real sisters now.” I didn’t move. Her grip tightened sharply, her pearl-tipped nail driving right into the gash on my wrist. She leaned in, whispering so softly that only I could hear. “See? They’ll always love me more.” I lifted my eyes to look at her. In an instant, she pulled back, her face instantly morphing into wounded innocence. “Callie… are you still mad at me?” Patricia’s tone hardened immediately. “Callie, Daphne went out of her way to make peace with you. What more do you want?” What did I want? I wanted to live. It was that simple. “Don’t embarrass us in front of everyone,” Patricia muttered. Looking at their polished, impatient faces, a soft, dry laugh slipped past my lips. A home offered as an act of pity was never a home at all. … 2 By the time we returned to the estate, the blood on my wrists had dried into a dark crust. A maid looked at me with hesitant pity before offering a pack of antiseptic wipes. Charles saw the exchange. “Why is there so much blood? Go get cleaned up, Callie. Don’t stir up any more trouble tonight.” My hand froze midair. The maid pulled back, visibly uncomfortable. I wiped my palms against the hem of my dress. It was a castoff Daphne had discarded two seasons ago, tailored down to fit my smaller frame. None of it mattered anymore. I went upstairs, grabbed the DNA paternity test from my drawer, and walked down to Patricia’s private sitting room. “Mom.” The syllable hung in the air. Her hands paused over her jewelry box. Daphne, sitting on the plush ottoman beside her, looked up. I held out the paper. “Could you… just once, call me your daughter?” Patricia didn’t take it. She looked at the official seal with a faint scowl. “Callie, blood isn’t a weapon to hold over people’s heads.” My hands turned cold. “Daphne has been with us for eighteen years,” Patricia continued evenly. “You’ve only been back for three months. These things take time.” “Time.” I clenched the paper in my fist. But time was the one thing I didn’t have. “How much time?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Daphne’s eyes welled with tears. “Callie, do you really think I stole your place?” Patricia pulled Daphne into her arms at once. “Don’t say that, darling. Don’t overthink.” Then she turned on me, cold and stern. “Callie, stop using your biological status to guilt everyone.” I said nothing. If I opened my mouth, I would break down, and the Winslows despised messy tears. Logan strode into the room and yanked me back by the elbow. “Callie, do you really have to make everything so ugly?” I looked at him. “Were eighteen years of being forgotten not enough room for me to step aside?” He faltered. For a split second, I saw a crack in his composure. Then he exhaled. “We’ll make it up to you later.” “Later.” I had heard that word so many times. When I drank until my stomach bled for Charles, he said he’d make it up to me later. When I knelt until my joints tore on the hardwood during deportment lessons, Patricia said she’d make it up to me later. Even when I begged my own mother to acknowledge my existence, Logan told me to wait for later. Their “later” was a blank check with no date, meant never to be cashed. “Charles, I’m not drinking your corporate dinners anymore,” I said, my voice steadying. “Patricia, I’m done learning how to be your idea of presentable. Logan, keep your pity. I don’t want the scraps of your affection.” Daphne bit her lip. “Callie, please don’t do this. You’re putting everyone in an impossible position.” I looked directly at her. “Then don’t be in one.” I turned back to the three people who shared my blood. “I don’t need your acceptance anymore.” … 3 Charles gave a harsh, dismissive scoff. “Callie, if you walk out that front door tonight, don’t you dare come crawling back in tears.” I gave a single nod. “Understood.” I turned and walked away. Behind me, Logan called out, “Callie!” I didn’t turn around. I hauled my small duffel bag past the wrought-iron gates of the Winslow estate. The bag was ridiculously light. In three months, I had accumulated almost nothing: a few second-hand outfits, a folded DNA report, and an old handwritten recipe book left behind by my adoptive mother. The security guard at the gatehouse looked at me with confusion. “Miss Callie, should I call you a car?” I patted my jacket pocket. My phone still had battery. My wallet held exactly forty-two dollars. I had lived in this sprawling city for three months, yet I had nowhere to go. I stood on the curb as the damp night wind whipped past. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a text from Logan: “When you’re done throwing your tantrum, come home. Mom cried herself to sleep because of you.” I stared at the screen for a long time. In the past, I would have replied instantly. I would have scrambled to explain myself, apologized profusely, asked if Mom had taken her blood pressure medicine. This time, I turned the phone face down. No reply. I found a cheap, worn-down motel tucked away in an old industrial alley. The wallpaper was peeling, but the room was quiet. In the final hours of my life, I wanted to belong only to myself. … Two days passed. I did not return. At first, Patricia remarked over breakfast, “Good riddance. At least the house is peaceful for once.” Yet that evening, when the kitchen prepared soup, she unconsciously told the maid to set out an extra bowl. When the maid asked who it was for, Patricia sat in silence for a long moment before murmuring, “Just throw it out.” Daphne saw it, her eyes immediately rimming with red. “Mom… are you missing Callie?” Patricia touched her cheek softly. “Only a little, darling. Don’t worry. You’re still my precious girl.” Charles continued going to the office as usual, acting as though nothing had changed. Until a call came through from the private hospital. “Mr. Winslow, we’re calling regarding Callie Hollis. She never returned for her follow-up after that severe gastric hemorrhage. As her emergency contact, please remind her that untreated ulcers of that severity can lead to full perforation.” Charles frowned. “Gastric hemorrhage? When?” His executive assistant’s expression tightened. “Sir… the night of the Henderson merger banquet.” That night, Charles’s business partners had poured drink after drink, laughing about how filial the Winslows’ new daughter was. Charles hadn’t stopped them because the eight-figure contract was on the line. Later, when I collapsed in the restroom hallway, he had assumed I was simply lightweight and dramatic. The assistant placed the medical chart on his desk. “Emergency admission. Acute blood loss. Severe gastric mucosal laceration.” Charles stared at the black-and-white printout, the room descending into absolute silence. That same afternoon, my former etiquette instructor arrived at the estate with her weekly evaluation logs. Patricia had prepared to reprimand her. “Callie made so little progress. Did you even bother teaching her properly?” The instructor quietly placed a folder of photographs on the marble coffee table. “Mrs. Winslow, these are the photos of her knees after each three-hour session.” In the photos, my legs were mottled with deep purple hematomas, some cracked open and bleeding against the bandages. Beside them were pages from my notebook in neat, careful handwriting: “Mom said I looked a little less clumsy today.” “Try harder tomorrow. Make her proud.” Patricia stared at the photographs, the color slowly draining from her face. She remembered what she had told me: “Don’t embarrass me.” She had thought I would be annoyed. She hadn’t realized I was clinging to her approval as if it were oxygen. Across town, Logan drove back to the warehouse. He found the security guard who had handled the lights that night. The man trembled the moment he heard the Winslow name. “Wasn’t it just a prank for Miss Daphne’s birthday? Miss Daphne explicitly told us not to open the door too quickly. And… the latch on the cold-storage unit jammed. Miss Callie was locked inside the sub-zero room for ten minutes.” Logan’s voice tightened dangerously. “Did she scream for help?” “She banged on the door until her hands bled,” the guard mumbled, looking down. “We thought… we thought she was just acting.” Logan leaned against the damp concrete wall, his breath catching in his throat. He remembered how pale I had looked when the lights went on, the blood dripping from my wrists, the desperate, hollow look in my eyes when I asked if he truly accepted me. And his answer had been: “Don’t push everyone for promises.” … 4 Back at the mansion, Daphne was sobbing on the sofa. “I didn’t know it would go that far. It was just a harmless joke…” When Logan walked through the front door, she threw herself at him. “Logan, please don’t be angry with me!” In the past, he would have wrapped her in a protective hug, reassuring her instantly. This time, he stood motionless, his arms rigid at his sides. “Why did you specify that Callie had to go alone?” Daphne blinked, startled. “I… I was scared.” “You were scared, so you sent her to die?” The words cut through the living room like a blade. Patricia gasped, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. Charles slammed his crystal tumbler onto the side table, shattering the glass. “Enough!” Yet Charles did not defend Daphne either. That evening, a courier package arrived at the front gates, addressed to the Winslow family. Sender: Callie. Inside were all the things the Winslows had ever given me. The designer gowns. The platinum supplementary credit card. The estate keycard. The custom silver pendant engraved with the Winslow crest. And at the very bottom, a single sheet of paper: a formal declaration of disownment. The paper was thin, the handwriting steady and unwavering: “From this day forward, all matters concerning Callie Hollis—in life, death, honor, or ruin—bear no relation to the Winslow family.” Logan held the paper, his hands trembling violently. Patricia suddenly bolted toward the front hall. “Find her! Go find her right now!” Charles stood frozen for a long time before his voice broke the stillness: “Get the car.” They were finally terrified. But I was no longer waiting.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580247”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The autumn of my freshman year of college, a man dragged me into a rain-slicked alley behind campus, tore away my dignity, and severed my internal organs so severely that I was left dependent on a medical drainage bag for the rest of my life. My mother died in that same alley, stabbed through the chest trying to shield me. In the five years that followed, my father spent every waking hour gathering evidence and filing petitions until the monster was locked behind bars. My fiancé, Brett, relocated us to a quiet neighborhood to start over, never leaving my side for a single day. Surrounded by their fierce, tender devotion, I truly believed I had clawed my way back into the light. Until the morning of my routine hospital follow-up, when I saw both of them gently escorting a pregnant woman into the OB-GYN wing. When the nurse asked for the father’s information, Brett didn’t hesitate. “The night of Laurel’s birthday last month—I was with Whitney. I’m the father.” Brett turned to my father, his voice level and resolute. “Dad, Whitney and I have been together for three years.” I froze in the corridor, the blood draining from my face until my entire body ran ice-cold. Whitney. The girl who had orchestrated my high school torment. The daughter of the man who murdered my mother. … The voices behind the frosted glass clinic door carried into the quiet hallway. My father, a man whose gentle patience had been my anchor for five years, was trembling with a fury I had never heard in him before. “You swore an oath to me, Brett! You swore you would dedicate your life to Laurel!” “And what about Whitney? Look at the impossible position you’ve put her in!” For half a decade, Brett and my father had been inseparable, moving like a father and son bound by shared tragedy. But now, Brett let out a sharp, mocking scoff. “Whitney is a human being, not a pawn. You should be asking what she wants, not deciding her life for her!” The tension inside the room coiled tight, thick and suffocating, until a soft, fragile voice broke through. “Please, Mr. Langford… Brett… don’t fight over me. It’s all my fault…” Standing outside, watching the two men who formed the entire foundation of my world engage in a bitter battle over the happiness of my tormentor, something inside my chest shattered. The sound of Whitney’s voice was a venomous thread, dragging me violently back into the nightmare. In high school, Whitney had made my life a living hell. She had shoved my head into bathroom stalls, ripped the clothes from my back in empty classrooms, and filmed my degradation for the entire school to laugh at. When I finally gathered the courage to go to the police, her father retaliated with brutal, unforgiving violence. That rainy night after class, her father, Frank, cornered me in the alleyway. My mother threw herself between us and caught his blade in her heart. I watched the light leave my mother’s eyes while Frank pinned me down, tearing at my clothes with a feral grin. And Whitney had stood right there at the mouth of the alley, phone raised, giggling as she recorded every agonizing second. Though Brett had arrived just in time to stop Frank before the worst could be finished, the damage was already done. My body was broken, my bladder permanently ruptured, and my mother was dead. Severe depression and crippling PTSD swallowed me whole. I attempted suicide more times than I could count. I shrank from the touch of any man. Thunderstorms sent me into violent, breathless convulsions. My father had dropped to his knees before my mother’s memorial, swearing on her memory that he would make Frank rot. For five years, he poured every penny and breath into ensuring Frank received the maximum sentence. And Brett… Brett had earned a counseling certification just to understand my triggers. He never left my bedside. Every time I reached for a blade, he would slash his own arm, looking into my eyes and whispering that he needed to feel my pain. When I couldn’t bear to look at a man’s face, he rented oversized, suffocating mascot suits, dancing awkwardly in the living room just to draw a faint smile to my lips. The first time I finally laughed, he pulled off the heavy foam head, his face drenched in sweat and tears, and struck himself across the jaw. “It’s my fault, Laurel. If only I had picked you up ten minutes earlier that night…” Piece by piece, they had painstakingly pulled me from the dark mud of my trauma. I thought I was stepping into a hard-won second chance at life. I never imagined they were simply guiding me to the edge of an even steeper cliff. My knees buckled. I slid down the cold drywall of the hospital hallway, my fingers clawing into the linoleum. When pain reaches an absolute threshold, the mind simply goes numb. Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Two of Brett’s closest friends approached, carrying baskets of fresh fruit and vitamins, their faces lit with relaxed, genuine smiles I rarely saw when they visited me. “Hey, look at our girl! Doing okay, sis?” I stared at them blankly. Just yesterday, those same men had been sitting at my dining table, eating a dinner I spent hours preparing. They had nudged Brett with their elbows, asking when he was finally going to marry me. I had held Brett’s hand, offering a shy, fragile smile. “Brett said we’ll go down to City Hall as soon as my health stabilizes, and then maybe we’ll talk about adoption.” My father had cleared his throat, urging everyone to pass the salad, while knowing glances drifted across the table. They all knew. Every single one of them had known for years. I was the only fool kept in the dark, clutching onto fairy-tale promises of growing old together. Through the half-open door, I caught sight of Whitney’s face. Soft, delicate, glowing with maternal youth. I dug my fingernails into my palms until skin broke. After the trial, my father had once grabbed Whitney by the collar in the courthouse hallway, his voice choked with venom as he told her she would pay for what she did. Brett had forced her onto her knees before me, his eyes icy and merciless: “What you owe Laurel can never be repaid in ten lifetimes.” To punish her, they had demanded she show up weekly, forcing her to apologize and endure their scrutiny. Yet somewhere within that twisted, obsessive proximity, Brett’s hatred had curdled into a dark, suffocating fascination. And my father had somehow found it in his heart to soften toward her. “She lost her father to a life sentence,” my father had murmured to Brett one evening when he thought I was asleep. “She’s paid her penance. Laurel still has the two of us, but Whitney… Whitney has no one in this world.” My life had been incinerated by Whitney and her father. And now, my fiancé was carrying her child, and my father viewed her as a tragic victim. How grotesque. I don’t know how long I sat on that hospital floor, waiting until the numbness in my legs matched the hollow void in my chest. When I finally pulled out my phone in the taxi home, a notification popped up. One of Brett’s friends had just posted an update. A photo of Brett walking along a manicured private path, his hand gently resting on the small of Whitney’s back. The geo-tag read “The Enclave”—one of the most exclusive, high-security gated subdivisions in the city. A place where private security vetted every vehicle at the gate. They had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide her, protecting the girl who had terrorized me from the slightest whisper of public scrutiny. What about me? What about the blood on the asphalt? Who was going to pay for my mother’s stolen life? I didn’t reply to the brief text Brett sent an hour later. In the past, if I failed to respond within ten minutes, he would blow up my phone, terrified that I had slipped into a bathtub with a razor. Today, my phone remained dead silent for hours. It was nearly dark when the front door opened. Brett and my father walked in together, a lingering warmth in their expressions that vanished the moment they saw me sitting in the dark. Brett quickly set a steaming takeout container on the coffee table, kneeling before me with that familiar, practiced tenderness. “Laurel, sweetie, I picked up some of that creamy shrimp bisque from downtown. It’s fresh. Have a few bites.” For five years, Brett had monitored my medications, sterilized my incision site, and changed my drainage bag twice a day without a word of complaint. When nightmares ripped me awake at three in the morning, he held me against his chest, rocking me until dawn. He knew every single detail of my body. He knew I had a life-threatening shellfish allergy. The soup wasn’t bought for me. He reached out to touch my cheek, but I recoiled instantly, shrinking against the sofa cushions. The thought of those hands touching her skin made bile rise in the back of my throat. My father hurried over, alarmed. “Laurel? Honey, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” The concern in their eyes looked so real. It was an astonishing performance. I pulled out my phone and hurled it squarely at Brett’s chest. “How do either of you look in the mirror without choking on your own disgust?” The phone landed face-up, illuminating the photo of Brett and Whitney at the gated villa. The color drained from both men’s faces in an instant. Brett recovered first, reaching out in a panic. “Laurel, listen to me. Whitney did terrible things in the past, but she knows that now. She’s completely broken. You don’t have to worry—the moment your surgery revisions are done, I’m still going to marry you.” My father let out a heavy, weary sigh. “We only kept it from you because we knew how fragile you are, Laurel. Whitney is worse off than you think. All she ever wanted was a family.” “She’s worse off?!” A raw, ragged scream tore from my throat. I stared at the two men who had sworn to protect me from the world. “She shoved a camera in my face while her father butchered Mom! She ruined my body, she stole my future, and you’re telling me “she” is the victim?!” Before the echo of my voice could fade, Brett’s phone chimed loudly. The speaker picked up Whitney’s soft, tearful whimper. “Mr. Langford… Brett… my stomach is cramping really badly. I’m scared…” Brett’s knuckles whitened around the device. My father turned to me, his eyes full of conflicted urgency. “I’ll go check on her. Brett will stay here with you. She’s carrying a baby, Laurel—she can’t be left alone right now.” I turned my face toward the wall, closing my eyes. After my father left, Brett remained in the apartment, but his mind had already fled. He sliced an apple and cut his finger. He set the kettle on the stove and forgot to turn off the burner. He over-salted the rice. I watched him in silence until he came over to change my drainage bag. As he rolled up his sleeve, my eyes caught the fresh dark ink on the inside of his forearm—the initials “W.K.” intertwined in a minimalist loop. A jolt of pure terror spiked through me. I jerked backward instinctively. My hip knocked against the unsealed medical bag, sending a splash of pale amber fluid over Brett’s wrist and the sleeve of his shirt. That tiny spill shattered the last shreds of his saintly composure. Brett slammed the medical kit onto the floor and screamed, his face twisting with rage. “When the hell are you going to stop holding us hostage with your misery?!” He caught sight of my wide, horrified eyes and froze. The anger bled out of him, replaced by clumsy panic. “Laurel… I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.” I shook my head violently, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold glass of the window. The rain. The alleyway. The heavy, tattooed arm pinning my wrists to the pavement while Frank laughed above me. Tattoos had been my deepest, most visceral trigger. For five years, Brett had refused to let anyone with visible ink enter our apartment. He had scrubbed away every trace of anything that could remind me of that night. And now, he had permanently etched the name of Frank’s daughter onto his own skin. My chest heaved as I fought for air, suffocated by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. “Is she really that precious to you?” My voice broke into ragged sobs. “Precious enough that you could look me in the eye every day for three years while sleeping with her? Brett… did you forget what they did to me? Did you forget everything you promised?” A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room. I looked at him, but his eyes were fixed entirely on the glowing screen of his phone. “Laurel, I have to go,” he muttered, already heading toward the entryway without looking up. “The ultrasound technician is arriving at Whitney’s house. The baby’s heart rate is irregular.” The front door clicked shut. He hadn’t heard a single word I said. A fire raged through my veins. I wept until my throat bled, smashing every mug, every frame, every piece of shared history in that apartment onto the hardwood floor. Eventually, exhaustion claimed me, and I collapsed into a restless sleep on the couch. I woke in the middle of the night, shivering violently. The cushions beneath me were soaked and foul-smelling. In his rush to get to Whitney, Brett hadn’t tightened the valve on my replacement bag properly. Numbly, I dragged myself into the bathroom, stripped the linens, and washed my skin under the scalding shower spray. My phone buzzed on the counter. A direct message from an anonymous account. Attached was a photo. Whitney, her skin marked with deep red bruises and love bites, resting her head peacefully on Brett’s bare chest. “You put my dad in a cage. This is your payback.” “They hated me so much at first, but look at them now. Begging at my feet, trained like dogs.” “I’ve got plenty more if you want to see how he touches me.” More images flooded the thread. Explicit, undeniable evidence of their intimacy over the past three years. After the attack, Brett had encouraged me to post daily vlogs about my recovery to help me build confidence. I remembered a specific, nameless handle that had viewed every single video from the very beginning. She had been watching me the entire time. I scrolled through the account’s public grid. It was an entire parallel life. On my birthday, when Brett and my father told me an emergency client meeting had come up, they had taken Whitney to a private movie premiere. On the morning of my follow-up appointment, when my father didn’t pick up my twelve frantic calls, they were holding Whitney’s hand at an IV infusion clinic. And on the anniversary of my mother’s death—when they claimed an out-of-town deposition kept them away, leaving me to sit alone by her grave in the rain—they were celebrating Whitney’s positive pregnancy test. I stared at the screen, tears streaming silently down my face, before a dry, hollow laugh escaped my lips. That storm had trapped only me. My mother’s unavenged blood had pinned down only my soul. No one in this world will ever truly share your pain. When dawn broke, I began packing my suitcase. After the incident, Brett had burned every piece of clothing I owned from that period, replacing them with pastel sweaters and soft floral dresses. He had wrapped his arms around me then, whispering, “Forget the past, Laurel. We’re going to build a brand-new life.” On the wall hung the framed portrait from the day I was discharged from the hospital—Dad on my left, Brett on my right, both holding my hands tightly. “We are a family now,” they had told me. “No one will ever let you go.” The front door unlocked. My father and Brett walked in together, stopping short when they saw the packed duffel bags. “Laurel? Where are you going?” my father asked, his brow furrowing. I didn’t pause my hands. “Just getting some fresh air.” Brett’s eyes darkened with guilt. He crossed the room, pulling me into a tight, desperate embrace. “We were wrong to hide it from you, Laurel. Please don’t be like this. Once Whitney delivers the baby, I’ll take you anywhere in the world you want to go. Okay?” I pulled out of his grasp with quiet disgust. Then I looked past him toward the hallway. Whitney was standing in the doorway, wearing a pristine, floor-length white sundress. My breath hitched, the room spinning violently. On the night of the attack, my white dress had been soaked through with my mother’s arterial blood. Ever since, not a single piece of white fabric had been allowed inside our home. Her outfit was an intentional, calculated strike. I raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the door. “Get out. Get out of my house.” Whitney’s eyes welled with tears, and she sank slowly to her knees on the entryway rug. “Laurel… I know what I did was unforgivable. It’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Brett or your father…” She cradled her barely visible bump, a fleeting glint of malice flashing through her lowered gaze. “If you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life serving you, taking care of you to atone for what happened. I swear I won’t come between your marriage…” The last fragile tether of my sanity snapped. I lunged forward, throwing my hands around her throat, pressing her into the hardwood floor. “You dare set foot in this house?! I will kill you! I will tear you apart!” A harsh, agonizing grip locked onto my wrists. Brett yanked me backward with enough force to throw me off balance. He stood over me, his features tight with condemnation. “Laurel, stop living in the damn past! You have to move on!” “Whitney was a teenager who made stupid mistakes, and Frank is already behind bars! Why do you have to hold onto this toxic grudge forever?!” My father stepped between us, his voice heavy with disappointed exhaustion. “Your mother was already in poor health, Laurel. Even without that night, her heart wouldn’t have lasted another few years.” “You have to learn to forgive. If your mother were watching down on us, she wouldn’t want to see you turned into a monster of hate.” The words hit me like a physical blow. “She wouldn’t have lasted another few years anyway.” So that was how they justified it to themselves. I looked at the two men who had sworn to be my protectors, a bitter, broken smile curling on my lips. “Do you think my mother is smiling down on you right now? Watching you protect her murderer’s daughter? Sleeping with her? Breeding with her? Aren’t you afraid of the retribution coming for you?” They both flinched, silence hanging heavy. Suddenly, Whitney let out a soft gasp and collapsed sideways onto the floor. I had never seen Brett move with such raw, frantic panic. He shoved past me, sweeping Whitney into his arms as if she were made of glass. My hip hit the edge of the console table, and Brett’s heavy boot caught the tube of my drainage bag, ripping the plastic seal clean off. He glanced at the fluid pooling around me for half a second, his expression hardening, before turning on his heel and running out the door. My father paused only long enough to throw out a hurried phrase: “We’ll handle this when we get back.” Neighbors in the hallway peered through their open doors, wrinkling their noses in disgust. “Good God, did she just soil herself in the hallway? That’s revolting.” “If you’re that unstable, stay in a facility. Why inflict yourself on the whole building?” Warm, foul liquid soaked through my jeans and hair. I scrambled on hands and knees, trying to wipe the floor with paper towels, whispering apologies through choking sobs. Their judgmental stares cut deeper than any blade. When I first came home with the drainage bag, those exact looks had terrified me. Back then, Brett and my father had shielded me, standing tall against the world’s cruelty. Now, they were the ones who had left me bleeding on the floor. I spent an hour cleaning the mess before dragging my battered body back to my desk. With shaking hands, I opened my social media account and drafted a public post, attaching the court records, the old news clippings, and the hospital discharge summaries. “Five years ago, Whitney Keller orchestrated my brutal assault, leading directly to the murder of my mother by her father, Frank. Today, she is pregnant with my fiancé’s child, sheltered by the very men who swore to seek justice. Here is the unvarnished truth.” Within minutes, the post exploded across the local community feeds. Thousands of comments poured in, condemning Whitney and the grotesque betrayal. Less than an hour later, our front door was kicked open with a thunderous bang. My father stormed into the room, his eyes blazing with fury. “Delete that post right now, Laurel! Are you trying to destroy Whitney’s entire life?!” Brett stepped into the doorway behind him, holding a sheaf of legal documents. His face was cold, stripped of every trace of the warmth he had shown me for five years. “I thought you had a kind heart, Laurel. When did you become so vindictive?” “Tomorrow is Whitney’s birthday. You are going to sign this clemency petition. It will reduce Frank’s sentence and allow him eligibility for medical parole. I promised Whitney I would reunite her with her father.” Every drop of blood in my body turned to stone. I stared at Brett, the very last ember of affection in my soul dying out completely. “I will never sign that,” I whispered, each syllable trembling with pure hatred. “Frank murdered my mother. He destroyed my life—” “SLAP!” The strike was so hard my head whipped to the side, my ear ringing with a sharp, piercing whine. My father lowered his trembling hand, his face twisted in grief and rage. He reached into his coat and pulled out the small ceramic urn containing my mother’s ashes, holding it over the edge of the table. “How much longer are you going to milk your victimhood?! We have catered to your every whim for five years!” “If you don’t sign this paper today, I will smash your mother’s ashes onto the street below! She doesn’t belong in a home filled with this much spite!” My eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. “No… Dad, please. Don’t touch Mom…” Tears spilled over my cheeks, hot and helpless. “Don’t hurt her… I’ll sign it. I’ll sign it…” The next afternoon, Brett hosted a large gathering at an upscale event space, ostensibly celebrating the upcoming legal resolution and Whitney’s birthday in front of family friends and colleagues. He guided me onto the small stage, his hand clamped firmly around my elbow, whispering beneath the applause. “Remember what you promised. You tell everyone the online post was a misunderstanding caused by your trauma, and you sign the petition publicly.” Seeing how pale and fragile I looked, his tone softened slightly. “Laurel, I know this is hard for you. But once Whitney delivers, whatever you want—any house, any trip—I’ll give it to you.” I nodded numbly, reaching out to take the microphone from the stand. The room went quiet. “The post I published yesterday…” My voice was raspy, cutting through the silence like a rusty knife. “…is the absolute truth. Frank assaulted me and murdered my mother. His daughter, Whitney, tormented me for years and destroyed my family!” Before I could finish, a heavy shove knocked me off my feet. Down in the front row, Whitney clutched her stomach, groaning in theatrical agony as she sank to her knees. “Whitney!” My father turned pale, sprinting toward her. Brett stood over me, his gaze burning with pure, unbridled hatred. “If I had known you were this twisted, I would have left you in that alley to die!” He lunged toward the podium where my mother’s small ceramic urn sat, grabbed it, and slammed it down onto the concrete stage floor. The porcelain shattered into jagged pieces, pale gray ash scattering across the floorboards. I screamed, a sound that didn’t belong to a human throat, clawing across the stage toward the dust. My father rushed up the steps, grabbing my arm, twisting it behind my back, and pressing my ink-stained thumb forcefully onto the signature line of the clemency petition. “You want everyone around you to suffer forever! You are the most selfish creature alive!” “Your mother is gone, Laurel! I just want Whitney to have a chance at peace—what is wrong with that?!” I fought with everything I had, but the agony in my shoulder flared white-hot. My thumb was slammed down onto the red ink pad, then stamped onto the white paper. I stared at the crimson print on the petition through a blur of tears. The years of bullying. The rainy night. My mother’s blood. The five years of slow, humiliating recovery. All of it had been turned into a sickening, cruel joke. “It’s done! Whitney, it’s signed!” My father and Brett broke into relieved, triumphant smiles, rushing down the steps to Whitney’s side. Every ounce of will drained from my limbs. My eyes drifted toward the open floor-to-ceiling window behind the stage. The breeze stirred the heavy curtains, carrying the scent of fresh rain. I felt so impossibly tired. Before my mind could register the movement, my feet had already carried me onto the wide concrete ledge. I looked back at the chaotic room and let out a soft, final smile. “Mom, I’m coming home.” I leaned forward into the empty air, opening my arms to the fall. Behind me, the room erupted into a chorus of blood-curdling screams.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580246”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel