After I got out of prison, my buddy and I opened an auto shop together. He put up the cash, I provided the expertise, and we agreed on a seventy-thirty split. Relying on my custom tuning skills, we took the local trust-fund racing scene by storm in our very first year, clearing eight million dollars in net profit. But when I went to collect my cut at the end of the year, he handed me a check for only ten grand. “The only reason we’re doing so well is because I’m the one rubbing shoulders with those rich kids,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Anyone can turn a wrench. You really think you’re some kind of genius? Most shops pay their mechanics six grand a month. I’m giving you ten. I’m doing you a favor.” Shocked and furious, I realized my loyalty had been met with nothing but greed. I quit on the spot and opened a rival shop right across the street. Six months later, he came begging: “If you come back, I’ll pay you five hundred thousand a year. That ought to be enough to keep you happy, right?” … 1 Before I went to see Derek, my phone rang. “Dante, have you given any more thought to my offer?” I didn’t hesitate. “Mr. Herman, I appreciate the interest, but I’ve made my position clear. I’m not leaving Apex Tuning.” The man on the other end of the line was Richard Herman, the owner of the largest high-end auto repair franchise in the state. He had been trying to headhunt me for months. Three years ago, when I first walked out of the state penitentiary with a record, finding a decent job was impossible. No one wanted to hire an ex-con. Just when I was at my lowest, Derek, my childhood friend, called. He asked if I wanted to run the technical side of his struggling auto shop. I had a degree in aerospace engineering and had spent years working at a research institute before my life went sideways. If I hadn’t stepped in to protect my parents from a group of local thugs and ended up severely injuring one of them, I never would have gone inside. Derek’s logic for hiring me was simple: if I could calculate rocket trajectories, I could easily tune a Porsche. He also complained that other mechanics kept stealing parts to sell on the black market, a loss his small business couldn’t survive. He promised that if I came on board, he’d give me a sweat equity stake in the business. After thinking it over for a few days, I agreed. As I prepared to hang up with Mr. Herman, he seemed to sense my eagerness to end the call and cut in. “Dante, listen to me. My sources tell me Derek is paying you ten grand a month and promising a thirty-percent cut of the profits. If you join us, I’ll start you at a base salary of five hundred thousand a year, plus a fifty-percent share of the performance shop’s net profits. I guarantee—” Before he could finish, Derek’s call beeped in. He wanted to know if I was at the shop yet and asked me to step into his office. I hung up on Herman, my chest swelling with anticipation. Word had already reached me that our shop had pulled in eight million dollars in net profit this year. According to our seventy-thirty agreement, my share was a cool two point four million. Two point four million dollars. Even back during my research institute days, I had never seen that kind of money. But the moment I walked into Derek’s office and he handed me my envelope, my excitement turned to ash. Derek sat in his oversized leather executive chair, casually tossing a black debit card onto the desk. “Dante, great work this year. There’s ten grand on this card. That’s your bonus.” For a second, I thought I had misheard him. “Ten grand? Did you miscalculate? We did eight million in net profit. Our agreement was thirty percent. I’m owed two point four million.” Derek let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Two point four million? Dante, do you honestly think you’re worth that much?” The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I froze, staring at him. “What is that supposed to mean, Derek?” My voice cracked, rising in pitch. “We had a deal. Technical equity. A seventy-thirty split. It was written down. Now you’re telling me you’re keeping it?” “Written down?” Derek’s smile turned patronizing. “We talked about it, sure. But it’s not in the contract you signed. Your employment agreement says ten grand a month, plus a ten-grand annual bonus. I’ve essentially doubled your monthly pay with this check. Look around the industry—what other shop owner is this generous?” A hot spike of anger flared in my chest. “Derek, don’t do this. You know exactly what kind of shape this dump was in when I started. We were barely pulling in ten jobs a month and facing bankruptcy. Who turned it around?” I pointed out the window toward the courtyard, which was currently packed with millions of dollars of European machinery. “Look at those cars out there. Do you think those guys bring their specs here because of the waiting room? They want my custom tuning. Even Richard Herman has been trying to lure me away, offering half a million a year and a fifty-percent cut. I didn’t even consider it because of our friendship, and this is how you treat me?” The smile vanished from Derek’s face. He leaned forward, his eyes cold. “You think I didn’t know Herman was sniffing around you? Dante, you really need to get over yourself.” “You think our business is booming because of your little wrench-turning skills? Come on. Anyone can learn to tune a car. There are dozens of shops in this city with decent mechanics. Why do you think these rich kids bring their toys to our small-time garage?” “It’s because of me. I spent the last year drinking craft beer, playing golf, and hanging out at VIP lounges with those trust-fund kids. They come here because of my relationships, because they like me. You’re just the guy covered in grease in the back. Don’t act like you’re the star of the show.” Listening to him, I had to actively restrain myself from throwing a punch. I knew my worth. There were fewer than a dozen engineers in the country who could do what I did with high-performance engines. The reason those wealthy drivers chose our small shop over established franchises—and the reason Herman wanted me so badly—was because of my custom work. I could extract performance gains they thought they could only get by shipping their cars back to Germany or Italy. Without me, Derek could drink a thousand craft beers with those kids, and they still wouldn’t trust him with a three-hundred-thousand-dollar engine block. Seeing the fury in my eyes, Derek sighed, getting up from his desk to pat my shoulder. “Look, Dan, I get that you’re upset. But I have to run a business. You aren’t the only mechanic in the shop. I have guys with more seniority who do more physical labor. They don’t get a percentage of the profits. If I give you millions, they’re going to find out, and it’ll destroy morale.” “Tell you what. I’ll bump your monthly salary by another thousand. And I’ll guarantee a ten-grand bonus every year. How’s that for taking care of my brother?” His smug, patronizing tone made me laugh out loud—a bitter, hollow sound. When I first arrived at this shop three years ago, the entire staff consisted of three clueless high school interns. We didn’t even have a lift that worked properly. We were patching tires and doing oil changes, pulling in less than twenty grand a month. I spent six months traveling to specialized performance seminars, paying for my own flights and lodging out of my meager savings while taking zero salary from the shop. When I returned, I used every connection I had left to find a local driver willing to let me modify his BMW M4. The day after he took it out on the track, he brought back five of his wealthy track-day friends. That was the day Apex Tuning was truly born. Over the past year, I was the first to arrive at seven in the morning and the last to lock up at eleven at night. Three hundred and sixty-five days, without a single day off, terrified of missing a client’s deadline. I had even herniated a disc in my spine and had to undergo emergency back surgery. The doctor warned me that my days of heavy lifting were over. Derek’s solution was to hire a young apprentice to assist me. Even then, I returned to the shop immediately after being discharged, kneeling and crouching on the cold concrete floor, guiding the apprentice’s hands through the delicate parts when my back screamed in pain. And now, he was pretending the senior mechanics—who had only applied here after we became famous, and whom I had personally trained—were the reason he couldn’t pay me. “Derek, if you want to break your word, just say it,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “If you want me out, say it. Don’t hide behind some pathetic excuse about the other guys’ morale. Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Derek waved his hand dismissively. “Dan, you’re taking this the wrong way. We’re brothers. Why would I want you to leave? But business is business. If you want a cut of the profits, you have to prove your worth to the bottom line.” I almost laughed again. My worth? The custom fabrication suppliers we used were partners I had personally vetted and negotiated with. Every single vehicle on our portfolio wall was a build I had engineered from scratch. And with a single sentence, he had erased all of it. I wanted to sue him. But the harsh reality crashed down on me: three years ago, trusting our friendship, I had agreed to everything verbally. We didn’t even have a text thread detailing the equity split. If I tried to take him to court, a lawyer wouldn’t even look at the case. “Fine, Derek. If that’s where we stand.” I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. “I’m done. I quit.” I expected him to flinch, or at least try to negotiate. Instead, he reached into his desk drawer and slid a pre-drafted termination and release agreement across the table. “Alright, Dante. If your heart’s not in it anymore, I won’t force you to stay. Go see payroll and get your final check.” Staring at the paper, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He had planned this long ago. With a cold sneer, I swept the ten-thousand-dollar debit card off the desk and walked out. I headed back to the garage bay to pack up my personal toolbox. When the other mechanics saw me packing, they crowded around my station. I had always treated them with respect and handled the toughest technical issues for them, so we had a good relationship. When I told them what Derek had done, the bay erupted in anger. “That is complete garbage, Dan. Everyone knows you built this place.” “Seriously. We wouldn’t even have a custom department if it weren’t for you. Nobody’s going to bust their hump for just hourly pay.” “Just watch. He’s going to run this place straight into the ground.” They were working-class guys; they understood the sting of being exploited. But at the end of the day, they had families to feed. All they could offer me were words of sympathy. I thanked them, then called over Cody, my apprentice, to ask if he wanted to come with me. Cody came from a rough background, and I had taken him under my wing, often slipping him extra cash for groceries and teaching him the finer points of diagnostic tuning. I figured if he came with me, I could have him running his own bay in two years. But when I explained my plan, Cody hesitated, taking a step back. “Actually, Dan… I think I’m going to stay here. I like my setup.” “Cody, you’re only making three grand a month here,” I said. “Come with me, and I guarantee I can double that within a year.” Seeing that I wasn’t dropping it, Cody straightened his posture, his tone turning defensive. “To be honest, Dan, Derek already bumped my salary to eight grand. I’m good.” I stared at him, stunned. “Eight grand? That’s what we pay senior master technicians. Why on earth is he paying you that?” Cody shifted his weight, refusing to meet my eyes. Looking at his nervous demeanor and remembering Derek’s smug confidence in the office, the ugly truth finally dawned on me. “You told Derek you’ve mastered my custom tuning techniques, didn’t you?” Cody’s silence was my answer. He was a smart kid, and he definitely had a natural hand for mechanics, but he had a fatal flaw: he was impatient and sloppy. We worked on seven-figure vehicles where a single stripped bolt or misaligned bracket could destroy a dry-sump lubrication system. Every custom job he had worked on had been heavily supervised by me to ensure nothing went wrong. Out of a lingering sense of mentorship, I tried to warn him. “Cody, you need to be honest with Derek. If you take on those builds alone, you’re going to make a mistake. Derek let me go without a second thought; if you destroy a client’s engine, he will ruin your life.” Cody’s face hardened, the faux-respectful apprentice act vanishing. “You know what, Dante? I called you ‘boss’ out of politeness, but you really think you’re some kind of god, don’t you? You’re just bitter because I’m replacing you.” “Your ‘secret’ tuning specs aren’t that complicated. I’ve watched you do them a hundred times. I know the maps, I know the fuel pressures. You think the world stops spinning because you’re not here?” “And let me let you in on a little secret: Derek’s wife is my first cousin. He’s family. He’s not going to touch me. So why don’t you worry about your own career and leave me the hell alone?” A dull thud echoed in my head, like I’d been struck by a blunt object. Derek’s wife’s cousin. That was why Derek had insisted on assigning Cody to me as an apprentice. That was why Cody’s frequent mistakes had always been brushed under the rug by management. That was why Derek had the confidence to throw me out today. From the very first day they introduced me to Cody, they had been planning to steal my trade secrets and replace me with a cheaper, family-loyal alternative. There was nothing left to say. I turned around, walked to the front office to collect my final paycheck, and wheeled my heavy toolbox toward the exit. But as I reached the rolling bay doors, a hand gripped my shoulder. “Dante! Thank God you’re here!” I turned to see a young guy with dyed silver hair standing in my way. It was Tyler, one of our wealthiest and most demanding clients. “What’s going on with my build?” Tyler demanded, pointing toward the back of the shop. “Why is some junior kid working on my car? He didn’t even know what year the chassis was!” Tyler’s car was a Porsche 935—one of only seventy-seven in existence. He had been on our waiting list for six months, explicitly demanding that I personally handle the suspension and aero upgrades. “I’m sorry, Tyler,” I said quietly. “I’ve been let go. I won’t be working on your car.” “Let go?” Tyler’s voice echoed through the high-ceilinged bay. “Is your boss insane? I waited half a year for you. Now you’re telling me some kid is going to chop up my Porsche?” The shouting drew a crowd. Several mechanics stopped what they were doing to watch. Derek came jogging out of the office, a practiced, oily smile plastered on his face. “Tyler! Hey, man, what seems to be the problem? Why the heavy vibes?” Tyler pointed at me. “Derek, why is Dante leaving? We agreed he was personally doing the custom alignment and turbos on my 935. Why is a kid touching my car?” Derek shot me a warning look, then turned to Tyler, his voice dripping with reassurance. “Tyler, chill, it’s all good. Dante chose to resign, which we’re bummed about, but we’ve got you covered. Cody here is his star pupil. He’s been doing ninety percent of the work on these high-end specs anyway. Your car is in perfect hands.” Cody stepped up, puffing out his chest. “Absolutely, Tyler. I know Dan’s setups inside and out. I’ll make sure she runs like a dream.” Tyler looked back and forth between Cody and me, clearly skeptical. I wanted to walk away and let them burn, but my eyes drifted to the 935 sitting on the lift. It was a masterpiece of carbon-fiber engineering, worth well over a million dollars. The replacement parts had to be shipped directly from Weissach. If they messed up the suspension geometry, they could easily write off the entire chassis. I let out a slow sigh and looked at Tyler. “Tyler, if you want my honest advice, take your car somewhere else.” Derek’s face turned crimson. He stepped up to my face, pointing a finger at my nose. “Dante! You don’t work here anymore! Get the hell out of my shop! If you try to sabotage my business, I swear to God I’ll have you locked back up!” He then grabbed Tyler by the arm, pulling him toward the office while whispering frantically in his ear. After a minute, Tyler looked back at me, his expression shifting from confusion to disgust. “Really? Jesus. I had no idea.” He walked back over, ignored me completely, and tossed his keys to Cody. “Alright, Cody. Make it happen. Just keep him away from my car.” I watched Tyler walk away, his body language stiff with sudden contempt. I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell him the truth. But then I thought, Why bother? It wasn’t my car, and it certainly wasn’t my shop anymore. I knew Derek had whispered something foul about my past into Tyler’s ear. But I didn’t realize how quickly that poison would spread. A few days later, I called Mr. Herman to see if his half-a-million-dollar offer was still on the table. There was a long, awkward silence on the line before he finally spoke. “Dante… let me ask you something. Do you have a felony record?” My heart sank. “Did Derek call you? Mr. Herman, I can explain. It was an altercation involving my elderly parents—” “I believe you, Dante, I really do,” Herman interrupted, his voice sympathetic but firm. “But I have partners and a board of directors to answer to. If word gets out that we hired an ex-con to manage our high-end division, it could destroy our brand image. I’m sorry.” He went on to tell me that Derek had already blasted my criminal record to every major shop owner and distributor in the local car community. I was blacklisted. Herman offered to help me find a job out of state, but the shock left me numb. I had treated Derek like a brother for years. I had worked myself to the bone to make him rich, and this was how he repaid me—by trying to starve me out of the industry entirely. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Herman,” I said, my voice steadying. “But I’m staying here. And you can mark my words: in less than two months, Derek is going to beg me to come back.” I packed my things, took my ten grand, and went back to my hometown to spend some quiet time with my parents. Sure enough, exactly two months later, my phone rang in the middle of the night.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497718”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Devin suddenly switched his regular cigarettes to a cotton candy-flavored vape. I asked him why the sudden change. Hadn’t he always insisted that vapes lacked the kick he needed to handle his work stress? He took a slow drag, his voice dripping with irritation. “No reason. I was at the mall, tried it, and liked it. So I switched.” Then he walked into his study and locked the door behind him, a habit that had become second nature to him lately. I acted as if I hadn’t noticed his shift. As always, I picked up his discarded suit jacket and headed downstairs to the dry cleaners. After all, he was in a rush to text the girl who had bought him that childish vape. And me? I was in a rush to “accidentally” run into Albert—the man who had just bought the most expensive penthouse in our luxury complex—at exactly 6:25 PM. 1 Devin is ten years older than me. Because he was always the protective, mature type in our relationship, he had spent our entire dating history coddling me. In the early years of our marriage, he washed my delicates, apologized first after every argument, and showered me with surprise gifts on every holiday. But about six months ago, the coddling stopped. So, I adapted. I started chasing him, playing the role of the devoted, doting wife. When he came home from work, I would immediately fetch his slippers. The moment he took off his suit, I would rush it down to the dry cleaners. When he was working in his study, even if he snapped at me and called me annoying for interrupting him, I never fought back. I would just smile and say, “Don’t work too hard, honey.” Devin didn’t notice my transformation. Instead, my submission only made him complacent. He forgot my birthday, then our anniversary. Two weeks ago, when the World Cup started, he completely forgot our sacred tradition of drinking beer and staying up together to watch every single match. He didn’t invite me. When I finally tracked him down to our favorite local bar, I found him sitting in our usual spot, clinking glasses with a strange young girl to celebrate a goal, using the exact ritual he and I had shared for a decade. Even then, I didn’t lose heart. A middle-aged man with a bit of money straying in his marriage? It was practically a cliché. But today, when the cloying scent of cotton candy vape filled our living room, it didn’t just make me feel incredibly cheap; it made me feel painfully outdated. Suddenly, the effort of coddling Devin felt exhausting. I decided it was time to find someone else to dote on. I had begged Devin countless times to quit smoking or at least switch to vapes because I couldn’t stand the smell of smoke. He had never done it for me. Yet, for her, he did it instantly. 2 To run a successful business in a high-end neighborhood like ours, you have to be incredibly sharp. Frank, the owner of the dry cleaners, was no exception. When I walked into his shop at exactly 6:25 PM, he took Devin’s suit and gave me a knowing look. “Mrs. Callahan, do you have plans tonight? I set up a small screening room in the back with some beers and barbecue. I was thinking of watching the World Cup match here. Care to join?” I smiled. “Sure, I don’t have much going on. By the way, is my quarterly membership expiring? Let me renew it.” Frank didn’t hesitate to print out the invoice. The price had gone up by $500, but I paid it without blinking. Just as he handed me my receipt, Albert walked in. As usual, he wore slides, a simple polo, and shorts. There were no visible logos, but the tailoring of his clothes screamed bespoke luxury. Frank was incredibly smooth. He took Albert’s garment and repeated the invitation. Albert, who seemed to have a friendly rapport with Frank, gave a quiet nod and agreed. That was how I ended up sitting in the back of a dry cleaner’s screening room, drinking beer with Albert—a thirty-nine-year-old, divorced billionaire with no kids. Because we didn’t know each other well and Albert was a naturally reserved man, the evening was quiet. Aside from the commentary on the television, the only sound was the cracking of beer cans. The barbecue on the table went entirely untouched. About fifteen minutes into the game, Frank tried to break the ice. “Mrs. Callahan, I recall you mentioning your husband is a huge soccer fan. Why don’t you call him down? The more the merrier.” At the mention of Devin, I didn’t have to fake my sadness. My face naturally fell. “He’s busy,” I said quietly. Then, I picked up a beer and downed the entire can. The next morning, I woke up with a bird’s nest of hair and a blinding headache, remembering absolutely nothing of the night before. Until Frank sent me a video. In it, a completely wasted version of myself was dragging Albert and Frank around, desperately trying to start a dance party in the middle of the tiny screening room. Staring at the screen, I wanted to sink into the earth. I had wanted to catch Albert’s attention, but certainly not by making an absolute fool of myself. To my surprise, there was a new contact in my phone, along with a message. “Are you awake, Mrs. Callahan?” I tapped on the profile. It was Albert. “Who is this?” I played dumb. “Albert.” “Oh, I am so sorry, Albert. I drank far too much last night.” “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a headache today?” “No, I’m okay. Thank you and Frank for making sure I got home safely.” After I sent that, Albert didn’t reply. I wasn’t bothered. A man in his position had an empire to run; he wasn’t going to spend his day texting a married woman about her hangover. I knew when to back off. Two weeks passed. I continued to run into Albert at the cleaners almost every evening. We maintained our routine, exchanging nothing more than polite nods and smiles. Frank, growing impatient on my behalf, whispered to me one afternoon, “You’re still just waiting around? Why haven’t you made a move?” I laughed softly. “How? Am I supposed to ask a billionaire to be my sidepiece? I’m not that delusional.” But the truth was, a part of me was still holding onto Devin. Even though Devin was pulling away further and further. He hadn’t come home last night, nor the night before. When I called him two nights ago, he actually answered, but his voice was sharp with annoyance. “I told you I’m in a meeting! Why do you keep calling me?” Before I could even choke out an apology, the line went dead. Last night, he didn’t even bother to pick up. Instead, he posted a photo of an airplane wing on his social media. I couldn’t help myself. I left a comment: “Honey, you didn’t tell me you were traveling?” Devin replied publicly, right beneath my comment: “Don’t you have anything better to do? If you’re that bored, go sign up for a yoga class.” I cried all night because of that comment. Even now, my eyes were swollen and red. Remembering that suffocating despair, I turned to Frank. “Frank, let me renew my membership for another six months. Organize another World Cup night for us, will you?” 3 Frank pulled out the payment terminal immediately. I tapped my card for another five thousand dollars. That evening started out just like the others—the three of us sitting in quiet companionship, watching the match. But then, my phone buzzed with a new contact request. The accompanying message read: “Hey girl, I’m your husband’s girlfriend. Mind adding me back?” It ended with a playful emoji sticking its tongue out. My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped my beer. After a agonizing struggle, I tapped accept. The moment the connection went through, she sent a video. With trembling fingers, I opened it. It was Devin, kissing her with a raw, tender passion he hadn’t shown me in years. It quickly became too intimate, and I had to close the screen. My chest felt as if it were being crushed under a heavy weight. Before this, I had always told myself that if Devin wanted to leave, I would let him. I could find another man. But in that moment, the sheer, suffocating reality of his betrayal was enough to make me feel like I was dying. I had been with Devin since I was twenty. I was young and innocent when we met. He was my first kiss, my first lover, my entire world. But when he was thirty, he liked twenty-year-olds. Now that he was forty, he still liked twenty-year-olds. By halftime, I couldn’t even pretend to be okay. Without saying a word to Frank or Albert, I set my beer down, bit my lip to keep from sobbing, and walked out of the room. For the next two weeks, I stayed inside. I didn’t go down to run into Albert, and I didn’t call Devin. But the girl didn’t stop. Her messages kept coming, each one more venomous than the last. “You old bird, do you really think you deserve a man like Devin? I heard you’re barely an A-cup. Devin told me he only likes C-cups.” “I looked up your social media. You must be over 120 pounds by now. No wonder Devin never takes you to corporate events anymore. You’re an embarrassment.” Along with the insults, she sent intimate photos of them. They were repulsive. Every time one popped up, I would run to the bathroom and dry-heave. Another month slipped away. Then came another text from her: “We’re back in the country, by the way. I bet Devin didn’t tell you.” “Haha, want to know why? Because we played a game while we were abroad, and I told him he wasn’t allowed to call or text you for the whole month. Can you believe a forty-year-old man can be this obedient? He does whatever I say.” Staring at the glowing screen, after living like a ghost in my own home for a month, I finally pulled open the curtains. I walked into the bathroom and carefully applied makeup to cover my hollow, pale face. Once I was finished, I called Devin’s secretary. She clearly had no idea about the affair and easily gave me the name of the restaurant where Devin was hosting a dinner tonight. I slipped into a silk dress, grabbed my bag, and drove to the venue. Through the glass of the private dining room, I saw Devin sitting at the head of the table. He looked remarkably rejuvenated, even wearing a youthful, trendy tie. And me? I had spent the past month sobbing into a silent phone, begging a voicemail to answer: “Devin, please, just pick up.” The memory brought a sharp pain to my chest. Inside the room, the girl was practically draped over his lap, pouring his wine and feeding him. I wiped away a stray tear, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. “Sorry to interrupt, everyone.” The room went dead silent. Devin looked up, his face hardening with shock. But his first instinct wasn’t to push the girl away. He simply frowned, lecturing me like an disappointed boss. “What are you doing here? Wait for me outside.” Then, as if to salvage his pride in front of his business partners, he chuckled dryly. “Apologies, gentlemen. My wife. She’s been a homemaker for too long and has forgotten her manners. I asked her to pick me up, and she just barged in.” He turned to the girl. “Lexie, honey, would you mind showing my wife out?” Lexie smirked, stood up, and sauntered over to me. She leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Don’t make a scene and embarrass Devin. Get out.” “Embarrass.” The word hit me like a physical blow. Was I embarrassing? Yes. If this had been years ago, I would have flipped the table. But instead, I had spent the last month cowering in my house, afraid to shatter the illusion of my marriage, letting a cheap mistress look down on me. It was pathetic. I didn’t offer Lexie a single word in response. I simply raised my hand and slapped her across the face. Then, I pulled a set of divorce papers from my bag and threw them onto the table. “Devin, I wanted to handle this quietly. Even though you cheated, I wanted us to end things with some dignity.” “But your little mistress here is too vile. She sends me your bedroom photos daily and brags about keeping you away from home. I had to get your secretary to tell me where you were just to deliver these.” “The papers are signed on my end. Enjoy your dinner.” Without looking at him again, I turned and walked out. I didn’t call a cab. I walked all the way back to our neighborhood. My heels cut into my skin until my ankles bled, and halfway through the walk, a torrential downpour began. But I barely felt it. A person’s breaking point always happens in a single, quiet instant. My collapse had begun six months ago, the first time he stopped washing my clothes, the first time he started wearing those youthful ties. It took me four hours to reach the estate gates. During that entire time, Devin didn’t call or text once. It was clear who he had chosen. My chest was tight with a pain so sharp I could barely breathe. As I entered the courtyard, I saw Albert, walking his dog in the damp air just as the rain stopped. I carried my ruined heels, my makeup running down my face, and walked up to him with a trembling voice. “Albert… do you have time for a beer tonight?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497717”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Just because my sister, Maeve, spoke a single sentence to Flora’s lover, my own daughter accused her of stealing her gold bracelet. They had Maeve tied up and suspended from the rafters of the warehouse for three agonizing days and nights. I groveled on the floor, begging my wife and child like a dog. “I’m begging you, please, let her down. She won’t ever speak to Gale again, I swear…” My daughter met my desperate pleas with a cruel, mocking smile. “I’ll let her down, Dad. But she has to give my gold bracelet back first.” But Maeve hadn’t stolen anything. How could she return something she never took? My chest collapsed. I crawled toward Flora on my hands and knees. “Flora, please. Tell them to stop. She’s going to die up there!” Flora looked down her nose at me, her eyes dead and cold. “It’s only been three days. She’s not going to die.” “But if you really want her down, you give your mother’s heirloom to Gale.” 1 I stared up at Flora, paralyzed by disbelief. “That pendant… it’s the only thing I have left of my mother.” Linda rolled her eyes, her face twisted in a sneer of utter impatience. “Are you going to give it up or not? If you don’t, we’ll just leave her hanging!” “I’ll give it to you!” I cried out. Maeve hadn’t had a single drop of water in seventy-two hours. If I didn’t get her down right now, she was going to die in that freezing warehouse. My fingers trembled, my eyes stinging with hot tears as I reached behind my neck to unclamp the chain. I slid the emerald pendant into my palm and held it out to my daughter like a piece of my own soul. “Linda, please… this is all I have left of your grandmother. Take care of it.” Linda snatched it with a look of pure disgust. “It’s so ugly. I have no idea why Uncle Gale wants this garbage anyway.” Uncle Gale. My heart froze. This was Gale’s doing? He had manipulated my daughter into this? Before my frantic thoughts could align, the heavy metal door creaked open, and Gale walked in. “Hey there, sweet Linda!” “Uncle Gale!” Linda’s entire demeanor lit up. She bounded over to him, throwing her arms around his waist. “You’re so late! I’ve been waiting forever…” Flora smoothed Linda’s hair, her gaze softening as she looked at Gale. “Now, Linda, Uncle Gale has important things to do. It’s okay if he’s a little late.” Watching them, my chest throbbed with a dull, sickening pain. They looked like a perfect family. A real family. I couldn’t comprehend it. What kind of hold did Gale have over them? He had appeared in our lives, and almost overnight, my sweet, gentle daughter and the wife who once swore she loved me had transformed into monsters. Linda snuggled closer to Gale, looking up at him with a proud, eager smile. “Uncle Gale, even though you’re late, look what I got for you!” She turned back to me, making a clicking sound with her tongue. Tsk, tsk, tsk. “Come here, boy. Bring the pendant to Uncle Gale.” No father should ever hear his own daughter treat him like a stray dog. A wave of burning humiliation and raw fury rushed to my head, threatening to drown me. Inhale. Exhale. I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering to myself: Maeve is still up there. You have to swallow it. You have to endure. I pushed myself up onto my feet, clutching the pendant, and took a step toward them. Linda’s face instantly darkened. “Who said you could stand up?” she snapped. “Dogs don’t walk on two legs. You crawl over here with the pendant in your mouth, and you drop it at Uncle Gale’s feet.” A sharp, metallic taste flooded my mouth. I had bitten through my own lip. Jude. Keep it together. Just survive. I let my knees hit the concrete floor. The cold seeped through my jeans as I bent over, took the emerald pendant between my teeth, and dragged myself forward on all fours toward Gale. “Hahaha! Look at him! He really is a dog!” Linda’s high-pitched laughter bounced off the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse. I leaned down, letting the pendant fall from my mouth onto the dusty floor. “Can we please let my sister down now?” My voice sounded hollow, stripped of all human dignity. Linda kicked my hand away in disgust. “Ugh, you are so annoying!” Her eyes gleamed with a sudden, vicious spark. She wrapped her arms around Gale’s neck, giggling. “Tell you what. You beg Uncle Gale. If he agrees to take your ugly little toy, I’ll let her down.” My hands shook. I looked up, horrified. “…Jude…” A faint, raspy whimper came from behind me. Maeve. I closed my eyes, the agony tearing me apart. I pressed my forehead flat against the filthy concrete. “Please, Mr. Fletcher,” I croaked. “Please take the pendant.” Gale didn’t answer. I raised my head and slammed it back down onto the floor. Again. And again. Thud. Thud. Warm, sticky blood began to leak down my forehead, mixing with the tears on my face. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. I’ll take it,” Gale said, his voice dripping with mock pity. He reached down and pulled me up by my collar, leaning close to my ear. “You want to know why Linda really put your sister up there?” he whispered, his hot breath smelling of expensive mints. “Because I told them Maeve threw herself at me. I told them she stripped naked and begged me to touch her.” Something snapped. The fragile thread of my sanity shattered into a million pieces. I lunged forward, throwing my entire weight into a kick that caught him square in the stomach. He crashed back onto the floor, and before he could recover, I straddled him, bringing my fists down onto his face over and over again. I hit him until his face was as bloodied and broken as mine. Flora and Linda screamed, their voices echoing in panic. “Gale! Gale!” They called the burly bodyguards in, who violently tore me away from him. Flora stared at me with pure venom as she knelt beside Gale’s limp body. “If anything happens to him, Jude, I swear to God you will pay with your life!” I didn’t hear them. I stumbled toward the back of the warehouse, reaching toward the rafters where Maeve hung. “Maeve… hang on… I’m getting you down…” I stood on my tiptoes, stretching my arms up, trying desperately to reach the coarse rope. Having had nothing to eat or drink for three days, her eyes were deeply sunken, her skin a sickly, translucent grey. Her dry, cracked lips parted slightly. “…Jude…” With trembling hands, I brushed a lock of sweat-matted hair from her cheek, forcing a smile. “Don’t be scared, Maeve. I’m going to find a ladder. Just a second.” But before I could take a step, several large guards tackled me, pinning my arms behind my back. “What are you doing? Let me go! Let me go!” They ignored my screams, dragging me toward the exit. “Maeve! Maeve!” As the heavy metal doors began to slam shut, the last thing I saw was a single, silent tear tracking down my sister’s pale, lifeless cheek. Half an hour later, my hands were bound behind my back, and a thick, suffocating black hood was pulled over my head. Rip. The hood was yanked off. The harsh fluorescent lights of the room blinded me. Slap! A stinging blow struck my cheek. My eyes adjusted, and I saw Flora, her eyes red and puffy. “Jude! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Gale is in the ICU because of you!” I stared at her, a cold laugh bubbling up from my throat. “He deserved it. He deserved worse.” Slap! Another blow, but this time it wasn’t Flora. It was my daughter, Linda. She glared at me as if I were a monster. “You hurt Uncle Gale! You’re a bad person! I don’t want you to be my dad anymore!” She pulled out a hand-stitched stuffed rabbit—the one I had painstakingly made for her—and brandished a pair of scissors, slicing it into shreds. “I don’t want anything from you!” I watched the cotton stuffing and shredded fabric fall to the floor, trampled under her designer sneakers. It felt like a knife twisting in my ribs. I had given her that toy right after she survived a car accident. I remembered the way she had clung to my neck back then, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I shouldn’t have run into the street. You got hurt because of me.” And she had said, “My daddy is the best daddy in the whole world. I’m going to take care of this bunny forever, just like you take care of me.” The memory shattered against the cold reality of the room. I began to shake violently. “Flora… we’ve been married for ten years. Are you really going to let this stranger drive us to our deaths? Are you going to watch your daughter destroy us?” Flora’s brows furrowed in annoyance. “Destroy you? Don’t be dramatic, Jude. Before I brought you here, I already had Gale’s men go back to the warehouse to let your sister down.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a chillingly transactional tone. “As for you… Gale needs a kidney. You’re going to give him yours. You can survive with one. You won’t die.” Linda clapped her hands in agreement. “That’s right! You won’t die anyway, so you have to give your kidney to Uncle Gale!” “Doctor! He’s here! Get him ready for surgery!” Flora called out. There were too many of them. I fought, thrashing against the guards, but they threw me onto a gurney, strapping my limbs down with heavy leather belts. I felt the cold sting of a needle in my arm. “Fl… ora…” Flora stood over me, her expression completely detached, refusing to look me in the eye. The anesthesia surged through my veins. The room spun, and darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally drifted back to consciousness, the room was empty. No Flora, no Linda. “Maeve…” Ignoring the agonizing, searing pain in my side, I tore the IV lines from my hand, threw off the blankets, and staggered out of the hospital, clutching my freshly sutured abdomen. I drove back to the abandoned warehouse in a daze. When I pushed the creaking metal door open, a suffocating, sweet-sour stench of decay hit me. My heart stopped. My ears filled with a high-pitched ringing. The grief was so heavy, so sudden, that it physically choked me. I couldn’t even make a sound. Tears poured down my face as I dragged a rusty metal chair over to the spot beneath the rafters. I climbed up, my hands shaking violently as I untied the coarse rope that held my sister. The moment the knot slipped, her body fell heavily to the floor. I scrambled down, dropping to my knees, and gathered her into my arms. “Maeve… I’m so sorry. I’m so late.” “It’s okay. I’m taking you home now.” I tried to lift her, but the sheer agony from my surgery flared, and my knees gave out. Thump. We both crashed to the ground, and she slipped from my grasp. “I’m sorry, Maeve! I’m sorry!” I sobbed, reaching out to pull her back to my chest. But as I drew closer, I saw them. White, writhing maggots crawling out of her cold, grey ear. The brutal reality of her death stared back at me, absolute and irreversible. A guttural, primal scream tore from my throat, echoing off the empty walls of the warehouse. “Ahhhhh! No!” Before the echoes could fade, a shadow fell over us. I spun around. It was Gale. He stood there, looking flushed, healthy, and pristine—not like someone who had just undergone major surgery. “Tsk, tsk. What a pity about your sister…” he said, looking down at Maeve’s corpse with mild amusement. “But hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who killed her. This has nothing to do with me.” Rage set my blood on fire. I tried to stand, to throw myself at him. Thud. Gale kicked me hard in my incision, sending me sprawling beside my sister. “You’re a cripple now, Jude,” he sneered. “Did you really think you could take me?” Fresh blood began to soak through my hospital gown. My body curled into a tight, trembling ball of sheer agony. Seeing me helpless, Gale smiled. He picked up a plastic jerrycan he had brought with him, unscrewed the cap, and began pouring gasoline all over Maeve’s body. My eyes stretched wide. “Gale! What are you doing! Stop it!” Gale chuckled. He struck a match, watched the tiny flame dance for a second, and tossed it onto her gasoline-soaked clothes. Whoosh. The flames erupted instantly, licking her pale skin. My vision turned crimson. Summoning a reservoir of adrenaline I didn’t know I possessed, I lunged forward, tackling Gale to the ground. My hand clamped around a heavy iron pipe lying nearby, and I raised it, ready to cave his skull in and end us both. “Jude!” Flora and Linda burst into the warehouse. In Flora’s hand was a small, square rosewood box. My mother’s urn. “Get off Gale!” Flora screamed. “Or we smash your mother’s ashes!” Linda chimed in, her voice shrill and cold. I froze, the heavy iron pipe hovering in the air. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them desecrate the last remaining piece of my mother. Seeing me hesitate, Gale whimpered from beneath me, playing the victim perfectly. “Jude, I only wanted the emerald pendant… is that really worth burning me alive?!” Flora glared at me, her eyes filled with disgust. “Jude, how did you become so sick? So evil?” “You’re a monster, trying to burn Uncle Gale alive!” Linda yelled. “You don’t deserve to be my dad!” My hands trembled. Slowly, the iron pipe slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the concrete. I had no choice. Flora and Linda rushed over, shoving me violently to the side. “Gale, are you okay?” Flora asked, helping him up. “Uncle Gale…” Linda whimpered. Gale brushed the dust off his designer shirt, his eyes turning red as he looked at me with theatrical sorrow. “Jude, if you really wanted that pendant back, you could have just asked. Did you really have to go this far?” “I didn’t start the fire!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “He did! He’s burning my sister’s body!” Flora and Linda both paused, their eyes drifting toward the blazing, silent corpse on the floor. Sensing their hesitation, Gale immediately pulled on his mask of injured innocence. “Why do you keep lying to Flora and Linda? I let your sister go hours ago. You brought some animal carcass in here to burn just to frame me because you hate me so much.” He sighed, looking magnanimous. “But whatever. I’m fine. Let’s just let it go…” The doubt vanished from Flora’s face, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. “No, we are not letting this go,” she said. “You tried to murder him over a piece of jewelry, Jude. If we don’t teach you a lesson, who knows what you’ll do next?” With those words, she raised her hand. Crack. The emerald pendant hit the ground, shattering into tiny green shards. But she wasn’t done. She flipped open the latch of the rosewood box and threw my mother’s ashes into a puddle of dirty, stagnant water on the warehouse floor. “No!!!” My world shattered. I threw myself toward the puddle, desperately trying to scoop up the gray dust with my bare fingers. But it was dissolving, mixing with the grease and mud, slipping through my fingers like water. I felt a violent, dry heave rip through my chest. Flora looked down at my weeping, broken form with cold satisfaction. “Don’t bother,” she said quietly. “Those aren’t your mother’s ashes. That was just a little warning. If you ever act out again, I’ll do it with the real ones.” But I had transferred my mother’s ashes into that urn with my own hands. I knew the weight of her. I knew the color. It was her. Once they walked away, leaving me alone in the smoke and ruin, I pulled out my phone. With trembling, ash-stained fingers, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in nearly ten years. “Ms. Heather,” I whispered, my voice steadying with a cold, hollow resolve. “I accept your offer. But I want ten times the amount we discussed.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497716”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Six years. Six years of living out of a suitcase, flying from one city to another. If you mapped out my flight paths, they’d look like a chaotic spiderweb spun by a blind spider, crisscrossing the country. And yet, after years of preparing for the Senior Product Lead promotion, I lost. To an intern who had been with the company for exactly four weeks. She threw herself into the arms of my boyfriend of six years—the man I had been secretly dating in the shadows of this office. She squealed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Wright! I actually did it!” Wright laughed, a warm, indulgent sound I hadn’t heard directed at me in years. He wrapped his arms around her waist. But when he caught me watching, his smile flattened. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by that cool, professional mask. “She needs the win for her resume, Sylvie,” he told me later, his voice incredibly casual. “Let her have this one. You’ll have plenty of opportunities in the future.” The future. He was always asking me to wait. Wait for a public relationship. Wait for the wedding he kept pushing back. Wait for the promotion that was always just out of reach. But Wright, I’m twenty-eight now. I’m not the starry-eyed girl who walked into this office at twenty-two. I can’t keep lying to myself. My hand trembled as I wiped away the cold tear slipping down my cheek. I pulled up my messages and texted my parents back in Ohio. Mom, Dad. I want to come home. I’ll do what you wanted. I’ll let you set me up. I’m ready to settle down. … 1 Right after the text sent, the screen flickered and died. Blackout. I stared at the outdated iPhone, a model so old it couldn’t even run the latest software updates, and let out a dry, bitter laugh. To survive in this expensive city, I’d pinched every penny. I skipped dinners, bought generic, and worked late hours just to prove I belonged. But my luck was always a step behind. I remained stuck in the cubicles, a permanent mid-level grunt. A sudden draft from the open window blew through the conference room, scattering my thick stack of handwritten market research papers across the desk. This morning, when I walked into the office, everyone was already congratulating me. Even I believed that my years of eating dirt had finally paid off. Instead, Gigi, the sweet-faced twenty-two-year-old intern, presented a flashy, five-slide PowerPoint deck that completely overshadowed my six years of technical expertise. And the person who officially announced her promotion was Wright. My boss, and my secret boyfriend. Wright always hated teaching. Whenever I asked him for advice early in my career, he’d tell me he was too busy, that hand-holding bred weakness. Yet, he had happily taken Gigi under his wing, personally guiding her through every step of her project. A light knock on my desk broke my train of thought. Gigi stood there, her arm casually looped through Wright’s. She beamed at me. “Wright is throwing me a little victory party tonight at that new spot downtown. You coming, Sylvie?” Wright had rules. We had to remain professional. We had to keep at least a physical arm’s length between us at all times in the office to avoid “gossip.” Apparently, those rules didn’t apply to Gigi. The harsh fluorescent lights of the conference room beat down on me. I knew my face must have looked horribly pale, but I forced my lips to curve upward. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.” I needed this. I needed to see it all to finally kill whatever hope I had left. Wright’s brow twitched. A faint crease formed between his eyes. He was surprised. I never went to company happy hours anymore. Usually, I’d already be on my way back to our apartment, prepping dinner, doing his laundry, waiting like a loyal dog for his key to turn in the lock. Gigi was thrilled. In the Uber on the way to the restaurant, she chatted endlessly, mostly complaining about how “bossy” Wright was. “I ordered an iced Americano when I was on my period, and he literally snatched it out of my hand,” she giggled, rolling her eyes playfully. “He made me drink hot lemon water for a solid week. Like, who even does that?” She held up a manicured finger to emphasize her point. My chest tightened so hard I felt a physical pang. I had to bend over slightly to catch my breath. The Wright she was describing was a man I didn’t know. The last time my cramps were so bad I was sweating through the sheets, Wright had spent the entire night locked in his study, ignoring my whimpers because he had “critical financial reports” to review. “Sylvie? Are you okay?” Gigi asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine,” I lied, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Just haven’t eaten all day.” “Oh, I was going to skip dinner too—trying to stay in shape, you know?” Gigi sighed, though her eyes sparkled with pride. “But Wright ordered literally half the menu from UberEats for my desk earlier. He said he didn’t know what I liked, so he just bought everything. It was so extra.” I pressed my hand against my stomach, trying to suppress the physical nausea building inside me. I couldn’t look at her anymore. At the restaurant, the private dining room was loud, and the spotlight remained firmly on Wright and Gigi. “Gigi, getting that promotion so fast… we all know Wright was your guardian angel,” one of the senior account managers teased, nudging her. “How are you ever going to repay him?” “I say she marries him!” someone else chimed in from the end of the table. Gigi’s cheeks flushed a bright pink, and she hid her face behind her hands. Wright didn’t shut them down. Instead, a lazy, amused smile played on his lips. After six years with him, I knew every line on his face. I knew that specific smile. He was genuinely happy. He liked being linked to her. A few drinks later, someone suggested a game of Truth or Dare, using an empty wine bottle. When the neck of the bottle spun and pointed directly at me, Gigi leaned forward, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Sylvie, you always rush home right at five. Do you have a secret boyfriend or something?” I stared at the shifting colors of the neon sign outside the window, then looked back at her. I smiled softly. “No,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Clink. The sound of glass hitting the mahogany table shattered the brief silence. Wright’s wine glass had slipped from his hand, spilling red wine across the white tablecloth. He wiped his fingers with a napkin, his face completely expressionless. His gaze swept across the table, lingering on everyone else, deliberately skipping over me. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice dry. “Slipped.” The moment passed quickly, drowned out by the noise of the party. My phone finally finished rebooting, buzzing in my purse. A single text message popped up. What is wrong with you tonight? When we first started working at the same firm, we agreed to keep our contact names strictly professional to avoid any slips. My phone saved him as “Mr. Thorne,” and his saved me as “Sylvie – Marketing.” Back then, Wright had hated it. He used to complain, burying his face in my neck, whining like a needy stray. “It sucks having the most beautiful girlfriend in the world and having to pretend you’re just a colleague.” To appease his frustration, I’d let him have his way in bed, letting him hold me in whatever desperate, possessive ways he wanted. But over the years, he stopped complaining. He climbed the corporate ladder rapidly, eventually becoming the VP of the entire division—my boss’s boss. Then, a few months ago, I saw his phone buzz. Gigi’s contact name was saved as “Gigi 🌸” with a heart next to it. When I confronted him about it, Wright had simply adjusted his cuffs, his tone patronizingly calm. “Sylvie, how old are you? You’re really getting jealous of a twenty-two-year-old intern?” The subtext was clear: You’re not a young girl anymore. Don’t act like one. And he was right. My youth belonged to him. My entire twenties, from twenty-two to twenty-eight, had been poured into him. But he had never once mentioned marriage. I opened our chat. The screen was a long, one-sided green wall of my texts. Page after page of me asking when he’d be home, what he wanted for dinner, or if he was okay. Every ten or fifteen messages from me would be met with a single, dry word from him: Fine. or Okay. For the first time in six years, I didn’t reply immediately. Instead, I opened my Delta app and booked a one-way flight back to Ohio for three days from now. Some stories don’t get a happy ending. It’s better to close the book before the pages completely rot. When the party finally wound down, everyone left in groups. I found myself standing alone on the curb in the biting autumn air. The Uber app showed a thirty-minute wait with surge pricing. A sleek, midnight-black Porsche pulled up to the curb. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing Gigi’s bright face. “Sylvie! Hop in! I told Wright he needs to drop you off since it’s freezing.” I was his actual girlfriend. Yet here I was, being offered a ride in my own boyfriend’s car as an act of charity from his intern. I forced my lips into a polite line, my voice barely carrying over the city traffic. “No, thank you. You guys go ahead—” Before I could even finish the sentence, the car’s engine roared, and the tires screeched against the asphalt as Wright hit the gas, pulling back into traffic without a second glance. That night, Wright didn’t come home. It was the first time in six years. Even though I already knew exactly where he was and what he was doing with Gigi, the realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me gasping for air in the empty apartment. The boy who used to blush when he kissed my cheek was gone, replaced by a man who had made himself thoroughly dirty. I stared at my phone screen, looking at the photos and profiles of local guys my parents had carefully vetted back home. They were all decent men, vetted by people who actually loved me. I closed my eyes and blindly tapped on one of the names. I trusted my parents’ judgment more than my own at this point. That night, my sleep was fitful, haunted by ghosts of the past. I dreamed of our first year in the city, when Wright and I shared a cramped, drafty studio apartment that smelled like mold and radiator heat. I remembered coming home crying after my boss had publicly humiliated me. Wright had held me so tight against his chest, his voice thick with a fierce, quiet anger. “Sylvie, baby, just wait for me. I swear to god, I’m going to make sure no one ever treats you like this again.” He had kept his promise. He worked himself to the bone, ousted that manager, and climbed his way up to become the youngest Managing Director of the firm. But Wright, the irony is that now, you’re the only one hurting me. A night of dreaming left me with a migraine that felt like a hot needle driving through my temple. I barely made it to the office, punching in with less than a minute to spare. Gigi arrived even later. She was wearing a low-cut knit top, and she hadn’t bordered to hide the faint purple bruise blooming right above her collarbone. When the older women in the department started teasing her, she pouted, her voice dripping with artificial coyness. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Please don’t tease me. I barely got any sleep last night… he just wouldn’t let me rest.” I wanted no part of this. I turned on my heel, intending to take the long way around to my cubicle, but Gigi wasn’t about to let me escape. “Sylvie, help me out here! Tell them to leave me alone!” She lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and hiding behind me. Instantly, the scent of Wright’s expensive sandalwood cologne washed over me. It was thick, clinging to her skin and clothes. Just how intensely had they held each other last night for his scent to completely coat her like this? A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit me. I shoved her off and bolted to the restroom, barely making it to a stall before dry-heaving into the toilet. When I finally stood up to wash my mouth, I saw Gigi’s reflection in the mirror. She was standing near the door, watching me with a calculating, nervous expression. I let out a cold, hollow laugh. She knew. Of course she did. “Relax,” I said, wiping my mouth with a paper towel. “I’m not pregnant with his kid.” Gigi’s innocent demeanor vanished. She dropped her arms, stepping closer to me, her eyes hardening. “Sylvie, let’s be real. Wright doesn’t love you anymore.” She looked at me, her chin raised. “What do you want to walk away? A payout? If it’s money, I can ask him to write you a check.” I wondered how deeply Wright must have spoiled her for her to speak with this level of arrogance. Before I could answer her, my manager opened the door and called both of us into the main conference room. Wright was already sitting at the head of the long glass table, his expression dark and looming. A thick folder of contract documents was slammed onto the table. “Who handled the final review on this acquisition contract?” our division head bellowed, his face red with rage. “An extra zero was added to the final payout figure. Nobody caught it, and now the firm is legally bound to pay ten times the agreed amount!” Beside me, Gigi flinched, shrinking into herself. She cast a desperate, pleading look toward Wright, who remained silent. A cold dread settled deep in my chest. And then, Wright tapped his fingers slowly against the glass table, his voice cool and decisive. “I believe Sylvie was the one who signed off on the final execution.” The room seemed to drop ten degrees. I felt myself go entirely numb, frozen in place. Even when Wright pulled me out into the empty hallway after the meeting, my mind was blank. I watched his thin lips move, his voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. “Gigi just got her promotion, Sylvie. A mistake like this on her record would ruin her career before it even starts.” He looked at me, completely indifferent to the shock on my face. “I’ll cover the financial penalty out of my own accounts. You won’t lose any money.” Before I could utter a single word, he turned back toward the conference room. He needed to comfort Gigi, who was supposedly traumatized by the meeting. Through the glass door, I heard his low, soothing voice. “It’s okay, sweetheart… I took care of it. You’re fine.” So that was his brilliant solution. To protect his shiny new toy, he threw me to the wolves. I covered my face with my hands, my quiet, bitter tears slipping through my fingers. I went back to my desk, packed my personal things, and printed out the resignation letter I’d drafted days ago. The HR manager looked at the paper, then up at me, hesitating. “Does Wright know about this?” I frowned. “Why would he need to know? This is a departmental matter.” She seemed to catch herself, shaking her head slightly, and stamped the exit paperwork. “What are your plans after this, Sylvie?” I let out a soft, genuine laugh, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. “I’m going back home to get married.” The news of my departure caused a minor stir in the department, but it was quickly overshadowed by the latest office gossip. “Wright flew out to Chicago with Gigi for her client meetings.” “Apparently, she was nervous about traveling alone, so he cleared his schedule to go with her. Isn’t that romantic?” My fingers curled slightly into my palms. I remembered a business trip to Atlanta three years ago. I had been followed back to my hotel by a strange man, and in a panic, I called Wright. His voice had been perfectly flat, irritated by the interruption. “Sylvie, my time is extremely valuable. If you’re in danger, dial 911, not my personal line.” My safety was an inconvenience. Gigi’s mild anxiety was worth a first-class ticket. I rubbed my chest, but the sharp, stabbing pain didn’t come this time. It was just a dull, empty ache. I pulled out my old phone and sent him a final text. Wright, let’s end this. We’re over. This time, he replied instantly. Stop acting up. I’ll explain everything when I get back tonight. I decided to wait. I wanted a proper, clean break. But as I sat in the drafty, echoing terminal of the airport all night, the cold wind seeping through my sweater, he never showed up. Instead, my feed updated with a post from Gigi. It was her birthday. The photo showed her wrapped in Wright’s heavy cashmere coat, standing on a rooftop overlooking the Chicago skyline, surrounded by exploding fireworks. I stared at the photo, let out a quiet laugh, and boarded my flight without looking back. … After a long, sleepless night of celebrating, Wright stirred in the hotel bed. The sheets slid down, exposing his bare shoulders and chest, marked with fresh scratches. He rubbed his temples, a dull headache forming, and reached for his phone. There was an automated notification from HR about a processed resignation. Wright clenched his jaw. He hadn’t actually expected me to quit. The sudden loss of control tasted sour in his mouth. But he wasn’t panicked. He knew me. He knew that no matter how far I walked, all he had to do was turn around and I’d be right there, waiting. He rummaged through the pile of shopping bags he’d bought for Gigi, picked out a designer scarf that didn’t fit her style, and arranged for it to be couriered to our apartment as an apology gift. He spent another three days in Chicago with Gigi, enjoying the distraction, before flying back. The moment he walked back into the office, he saw a group of marketing staff huddling around a desk, looking at a Venmo pool. He was in a remarkably good mood. “What’s everyone up to?” “Sylvie’s getting married,” one of the assistants replied. “We’re putting together a group gift registry contribution. Do you want to throw in, Wright?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497715”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the eve of our wedding, Ted Alexander died protecting me. A mugger’s blade tore through his chest in a dark alley, and he bled out right in front of my eyes. I collapsed, my mind fracturing from the trauma. By the time I finally woke up in a sterile hospital bed, his funeral had already ended. He was gone, buried without me. For the next ten years, I lived like a ghost. I dragged myself to thirty-five. My grandmother—the matriarch of the Virgil family and the only person who truly cared for me—fell terminally ill. Her final, desperate wish was to see me married, to know I wouldn’t be left entirely alone in this world. So, I agreed to the arrangement. A strategic merger dressed up as a marriage of convenience. Right after my first stiff meeting with the groom-to-be, I sat in my car, aimlessly scrolling through my phone to numb the silence. I stumbled upon an anonymous thread on a popular forum: What’s the most extreme thing you’ve ever done for love? Among the endless comments, one anonymous reply caught my eye: My husband loves me so much that he literally staged his own death just to escape his then-girlfriend and be with me. The comment section immediately erupted into chaos. Are you kidding? That’s sick. What a pair of absolute sociopaths. That poor girl… Imagine being left in the dark for the rest of your life, grieving a ghost. But then, someone stepped into the thread to defend the anonymous poster. I love my wife. No matter what any of you bitter strangers say, I will always stand by her side. I stared at the defender’s profile picture. A strange, cold sensation prickled at the back of my neck. It felt too familiar. Far too familiar. I tapped the tiny avatar to enlarge the image. My breath caught. My fingers began to tremble so violently I nearly dropped the phone. The photo showed a man’s wrist. Resting on it was a watch. A custom-made, platinum Patek Philippe. I had commissioned it myself for Ted’s twenty-fifth birthday. It cost over a million dollars. It was the only one of its kind in the entire world. I saved the photo, staring at it for what felt like hours, my mind refusing to accept the impossible reality. Then, my survival instinct kicked in. I called a close friend of mine—an expert in cybersecurity. “Do me a favor,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Can you check something for me? Ten years ago, when Ted Alexander supposedly died… was a death certificate ever actually filed?” The line went dead quiet. “Bridget,” he sighed, his voice heavy with pity. “It’s been ten years. You have to let him go. You have to move on.” I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. “I’m not looking backward, Peter. I’m asking because I don’t think he’s dead.” Another long, suffocating silence. “Give me an hour,” he finally said. … 1 An hour later, Peter’s call came through. His voice was completely different now—tense, vibrating with a barely contained fury. “I ran the databases,” he said. “There’s no death certificate. No cremation records. Back then, his mother rushed through a private, closed-casket funeral so fast nobody even saw the urn. I thought that was suspicious, so I dug deeper into the federal registry. His Social Security number was never flagged as deceased. Ted Alexander is alive.” He paused, swallowing hard, before spitting out the next words: “He’s living in Portland, right in the next state over. He owns a whole block of commercial properties. He’s living like a king, Bridget. That absolute bastard.” I drove through a blinding downpour, making the one-hour trip to the address Peter sent me. My hands were numb on the steering wheel. I parked across the street from a chic, high-end boutique. Through the glass storefront, I could see a woman bustling around inside. Then, the door opened. Ted walked in, carrying two cups of iced boba tea. They smiled, laughing at some private joke as he handed her the drink. I leaned against the brick wall of the alleyway opposite them, staring at his face. He looked exactly the same. A little broader in the shoulders, perhaps. His skin was healthy, flushed with life. He was thriving. Ten years ago, in that dark, narrow alley, we had been cornered by a man with a knife. Ted had stepped in front of me. The blade had sunk deep into his chest. The attacker fled. It was a blind spot for the city’s security cameras, and the police never found him. His “death” had shattered me into a million pieces. For ten years, I had blamed myself. I had never once doubted the tragedy. I kept watching through the window. A team of event planners entered the shop, spreading out portfolios on the counter. I watched them gesture and discuss details for a long time. “Mr. Alexander, we’ll make sure your wife’s birthday gala is absolutely spectacular. We’re aiming for the highest tier—a five-million-dollar budget,” the lead planner said, his voice carrying slightly as he stepped near the door. “Every single rose will be flown in fresh from Ecuador.” After the planners left, Ted took the woman’s hands. His voice was dripping with that soft, comforting tenderness I used to know so well. “Sweetheart, if those comments are bothering you, just delete the post. Those people are just jealous of what we have. Don’t let them get to you.” He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, revealing a breathtaking diamond necklace, and gently clasped it around her neck. She touched the diamonds, smiling, and casually mentioned something about how his mother had been doing lately. A violent ringing filled my ears. His mother. She knew. She had always known. At the funeral ten years ago, she had sobbed so hysterically she had to be carried out. It was all a performance. A calculated lie. The entire Alexander family had weaponized my grief. My chest tightened, the air escaping my lungs as if I were the one suffocating in a casket. Then, the woman turned her face toward the light. My blood ran cold. I recognized her. Chloe Ward. She was a girl from the Appalachian foothills whom I had personally sponsored. I remembered her standing in my office years ago, a frail, trembling teenager with tear-stained cheeks, begging for help to pay her college tuition. I had held her hands and told her, Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure you get your degree. After she graduated, I personally secured her an internship at my family’s firm. I mentored her, gave her a career, treated her like a sister. Until the afternoon I walked into the executive lounge and found her and Ted pressed against the sofa, their clothes in disarray, losing themselves in each other. I fired Chloe on the spot. Ted had dropped to his knees, weeping, pressing his forehead against my shoes. He swore it was a momentary lapse in judgment, a stupid mistake, and begged for mercy. He promised he would change. And like a fool, I forgave him. I yanked myself out of the memories, turning on my heel, and got back into my car. I drove away, my mind a chaotic blur. I had barely cleared the first intersection when a sudden, jarring impact slammed me from behind. My head whipped forward. Whiplash. I got out of the car, rubbing my neck. Parked behind me was a sleek, cherry-red Ferrari. The driver’s door swung open, and Chloe stepped out in designer heels. She glanced at me, her oversized designer sunglasses still covering her face. She didn’t recognize me. Instead, she immediately dialed a number on her phone, her voice instantly turning into a helpless whine. “Babe, some idiot just backed into me! You need to come down here right now!” I turned to get back into my car to wait for the police, but Chloe lunged forward, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. “Hey! You’re not going anywhere! This is entirely your fault! If you didn’t drive like a complete amateur, I wouldn’t have hit you!” Within minutes, Ted’s car pulled up to the curb. The moment his eyes fell on me, his entire body froze. He recovered quickly, stepping forward to position himself like a shield in front of Chloe. “You—” I clenched my jaw, my gaze locked onto his face. This was the face I had mourned for a decade. Ten years of carrying the crushing weight of survivor’s guilt, wishing it had been me instead of him. When he “died,” my world had turned to ash. I fell into a spiral of severe depression, heavy drinking, and chronic insomnia. I suffered a major stomach hemorrhage from the stress and ended up in the ICU multiple times. For the first few years, I was barely a human being—just a hollow shell of grief. It took Nana screaming at me, forcing me to look at my own deterioration, to finally pull myself out of the grave I was digging for myself. And here he was. Breathing. Warm. Alive. “Ted. You’re alive.” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting away, unable to hold my gaze. “Bridget,” he muttered. My voice was hoarse, raw from the sheer absurdity of it. “Why? Why did you do this to me?” Chloe peeked out from behind his shoulder, her tone dripping with mock sweet-talk. “Oh, please, Bridget. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s this overbearing, aggressive attitude of yours that made Ted feel so suffocated in the first place.” A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat. “Aggressive? Ted, when I invested thirty million dollars of Virgil money to fund your startup, did you find me too aggressive then?” “When I gave you exclusive access to my family’s entire distribution network to build your empire, did you find me overbearing?” Ted’s expression darkened. He frowned, his voice taking on a defensive, irritated edge. “See? This is exactly what I mean. You’re always so hostile, always throwing your status in my face.” The blue lights of a police cruiser flickered down the street. The officer pulled over and began assessing the scene. Ted pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and took a slow drag. His tone was cold, detached. “Bridget, if you got into a car accident, you’d handle it yourself. You’d call your lawyers, file the claims, and move on. You don’t need anyone.” He exhaled a plume of gray smoke, looking back at Chloe. “Chloe is different. She actually needs me.” Once the officer finished writing up the report, Chloe smiled triumphantly. “Fine, we’re at fault. I’ll wire you the money for the repairs.” Ted dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his leather shoe. “Don’t worry about it, Chloe. I’ll handle it.” He pulled out his phone, his expression completely flat. “My number is still the same, Bridget. I never changed it.” A soft chime echoed from my purse. He had just Venmo’d me ten thousand dollars. Without another word, they got back into the Ferrari and drove away. I stood frozen on the asphalt, my chest feeling as though a rusty blade were being slowly twisted in my heart. He never changed his number. For ten fucking years, he had kept the exact same account. Do you have any idea how many messages I sent him? Hundreds. Thousands. Every single one of them sent into a void I thought was death. Ted, it’s been a hundred days since you left. The pain is unbearable. I want to be with you. Ted, I’m in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. If you were here, you’d be sitting by my bed making me laugh. Ted, I miss you so much. He had seen them. Every single desperate, agonizing word. And he had simply ignored them. When I got back to my empty house, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ted. Bridget, what happened back then… I know it was wrong of me to keep you in the dark. But it’s been ten years. You need to learn to move on. And don’t you dare start trouble for Chloe. I locked my phone, lay down on the sofa, and let the tears finally spill over. It hurt. God, it hurt so much. I looked around the cavernous living room. I had bought this estate specifically for us, envisioning the life we would build together. Ted had complained back then that he felt emasculated because I paid for it, and I had foolishly reassured him that what was mine was his. Every piece of furniture, every painting, every curtain had been meticulously selected to match our shared tastes. It had remained untouched for ten years, a mausoleum to a dead love. I grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the coffee table and shattered it against the hardwood floor. Then, I pulled up his contact, clicked his profile, and hit delete. He was out there living his perfect, sweet life. Why was I still letting myself be kept prisoner in a tomb of my own making? I forced myself to throw my energy into work, burying my grief under mountains of corporate acquisitions and board meetings. A few nights later, there was a high-profile charity gala. I dressed in an elegant silk gown and forced myself to go. Almost immediately upon entering the ballroom, I spotted Chloe. She waved at me, smiling brightly as if we were old college roommates catching up. “Bridget! You’re here! What a small world!” Ted stood beside her, his brow furrowing as he glared at me. “Bridget, are you seriously stalking me now?” He paused, a look of sheer disbelief crossing his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually spent the last ten years waiting for me.” Chloe let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh my god, really? Ten years without a single date? Talk about desperate!” Her shoulders shook with laughter. A group of tech executives walked over, and Ted, eager to escape the tension, raised his champagne glass and slipped into their circle. Chloe raised her glass to a neighboring group of socialites. “Everyone, this is Bridget Virgil. She’s the wonderful woman who sponsored my education through her family’s foundation. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.” One of the women smiled politely. “How generous. I’m sure Bridget taught you a great deal.” Chloe’s smile was sweet, but her eyes were venomous. “Oh, absolutely. Bridget taught me so much.” She stepped closer to me, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “Especially how to spot a real man. You always told me to look for someone responsible, someone who would protect me.” Her lips curved into a smug grin. “Thank you so much for training such a perfect husband for me, Bridget.” She clinked her glass against mine with a sharp clink. The pain in my chest was so sharp I could barely draw breath. Ignoring her, I turned on my heel and walked out onto the terrace. The cool summer breeze washed over me, clearing the heavy scent of perfume and champagne from my senses. I heard footsteps behind me. Chloe had followed me, leaning casually against the stone balustrade. I turned to leave, but she reached out and grabbed my wrist, hard. “You know, Bridget, when you brought me out of those poor country hills, you told me to study hard and build a better life than yours,” she murmured, swirling the champagne in her glass. “And look at me now. I actually did it.” I spat out a single word through clenched teeth: “Pathetic.” Her laugh grew louder, sharper. “Oh, look at you. Still playing the proud heiress, even when you have nothing left. It’s honestly tragic.” I had no energy left for her games. I yanked my arm back and turned to walk away. The next second, a piercing scream echoed behind me. I spun around. Chloe had thrown herself over the low stone railing of the terrace, tumbling down into the gardens below. “Help! Somebody help me!” her voice shrieked through the night air. I stood frozen at the railing, watching her lie on the manicured lawn below. A figure rushed past me. Ted’s eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted with a rage so violent it felt physical. “Bridget! Have you lost your mind?! You pushed her!” “I didn’t touch her,” I said, my voice deadpan, exhausted. He glared at me, his fingers wrapping around my upper arm like a vice. “You’re coming with me. Right now.” He dragged me down the stairs. Dozens of eyes stared at me, whispers rippling through the crowd as if I were a cold-blooded killer. The weight of the accusation sat heavy on my chest. The ambulance rushed Chloe to the nearest hospital. The doctors diagnosed her with a mild concussion and a fractured leg. Ted paced the sterile hallway outside her room, his heavy steps echoing. Finally, he stopped in front of me, his voice shaking with anger. “Bridget, I’m the one who chose to be with Chloe. If you’re angry, take it out on me! There was no reason to hurt her!” A wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. “I told you. I didn’t push her.” The red light above the door turned off, and Chloe was wheeled out. Ted immediately rushed to her side. He refused to let me leave, forcing me to sit in the corner of her private room like a prisoner, guarding her bedside all night under his watchful eye. The next morning, Ted went out to fetch her breakfast. The moment the door clicked shut, Chloe sat up, peeling an apple with a smug, victorious look on her face. I spoke first. “Chloe, whatever you’re trying to achieve, I’m done with Ted. I don’t want him back. What else do you want?” She smiled, taking a slow bite of the apple. “What do I want? I want Ted to despise you more with every passing day.” I stood up, crossing my arms. “Why? You already have him. Why go to these extremes?” She let out a cruel, melodic giggle. “Why? Because I hate you, Bridget. I’ve always hated you.” “You grew up wrapped in silk and gold. Helping someone like me was just a charity project to make yourself feel good. I was nothing but a stray dog you threw scraps to for your own amusement.” I shook my head. “I never saw you that way.” She sneered, her eyes flashing with old resentment. “Do you remember the day you caught us? I knelt on the floor and begged for your forgiveness. I was genuinely terrified—terrified you’d send me back to that miserable mountain town. But no matter how much I cried, you threw me out anyway.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “But then, I stopped being afraid. Do you want to know why?” “Because on the night he ‘died,’ while you were crying yourself blind in that empty house, he was in my bed, making love to me.” “Bridget, you’re a joke. A pathetic little clown.” My hand moved before my brain could process. A sharp, stinging slap echoed through the room, striking her cheek. The very next second, a brutal force shoved me from behind. I flew sideways, my shoulder slamming hard into the drywall. A white-hot pain flared through my arm. “BRIDGET!” Ted stood in the doorway, his face twisted in fury. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” I stood up, adjusting my coat, refusing to shed another tear in front of them. Ted’s voice chased me out the door. “If you ever touch her again, Bridget, I swear to God I’ll make you regret it. She’s not some defenseless little girl you can bully anymore!” I knew there was no point in arguing. I pushed the door open. “Now that she’s awake, my job here is done.” I hadn’t anticipated how far Ted would go to protect her. A month later, I was at the gym when my phone rang. It was our family physician. “Bridget, get to the estate now! Your grandmother… she’s slipping away!” Panic seized my throat. I ran to my car, driving like a madwoman. A sudden summer storm had broken, rain lashing against the windshield in sheets. The wipers couldn’t keep up; the world outside was a blurry, gray smear. Drenched to the bone, I burst through the front doors of the estate. The doctor stood by Nana’s bed, his head bowed. He gave me a somber, apologetic look. Nana’s eyes were cloudy, struggling to focus as she turned her head toward me. In her gaze, I saw a devastating mix of pity, sorrow, and a deep, unspoken fear. I fell to my knees, grasping her frail, cold hand. “Nana, I’m here. I’m right here.” Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged gasps. She couldn’t speak. One of my cousins stood nearby, handing me a tablet with a look of deep shame. “Aunt Evelyn saw this last night. Her blood pressure spiked, and she collapsed.” On the screen was a viral tabloid article with a sickening headline: The Desperate Heiress: How One Rich Girl Spent Ten Years Chasing a Ghost, and the Man Who Staged His Own Death Just to Escape Her. The comment section was a cesspool of vitriol. She’s pathetic. Money can’t buy self-respect. What a stalker. She needs to take a hint and disappear. Suddenly, Nana’s grip tightened on my hand with surprising strength. Her eyes widened, her trembling finger pointing toward me, as if trying to warn me of something, before her hand slowly slipped away, falling limp onto the mattress. “Nana! No, please, Nana!” On the day of the funeral, I stood before her casket, the guilt and grief pressing down on my chest like a lead weight. If it weren’t for my scandalous reputation, Nana wouldn’t have been pushed over the edge. I had killed the only person who loved me. Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the entrance of the chapel. I looked up and saw Chloe walking in, wearing a vibrant, skin-tight crimson dress. Beside her stood Ted. Rage, hot and blinding, flared in my chest. “What are you doing here? Get the hell out!” Chloe wore a mock expression of grief. “Oh, Bridget, Ted was throwing me a birthday lunch when we heard about your grandmother. We wanted to pay our respects.” Ted stepped forward, his face completely blank as he tossed a small envelope onto the pew. “There’s five thousand dollars in there. Consider it compensation for the last ten years.” Chloe’s lips twitched with a smug satisfaction, her voice loud enough to carry to every mourning family member in the chapel. “Bridget, Ted loves me. He always has. It’s time you let him go.” “This is all the cash he had on hand, and he’s giving it to you. Take it, and please, stop chasing another woman’s husband.” I stared at Ted, my voice deadly quiet, vibrating with hatred. “Ted, the fact that you are still breathing is the greatest insult to my entire existence.” Chloe feigned outrage. “How dare you? We came here out of the goodness of our hearts, and this is how you treat us?” I turned my gaze slowly to Chloe. “Chloe, who was the girl who knelt on my office floor, sobbing, begging for a chance to go to college?” “I paid for your life for seven years—from high school through university. Is this how you show your gratitude? By stealing my fiancé?” Chloe’s face turned white, tears immediately welling in her eyes. “That’s… that’s not how it happened…” Ted yelled, “Bridget, shut your mouth!” Chloe wiped her tears, taking a step closer to me. She leaned in, her voice a barely audible hiss. “Bridget, you still think you lost that baby back then because of a tragic accident, don’t you?” My head snapped up. She smiled, her eyes glittering with malice. “You were unconscious, but the baby was perfectly fine. Ted made the executive decision to have the doctors terminate the pregnancy while you were under. He didn’t want any ties left to you.” My brain exploded into a million fragments of white noise. My baby. The child I thought I had lost because of my own weak, grieving body. I had blamed my own genetics, my own bad luck. It was them. It was Ted. He had murdered my child while I lay helpless. I grabbed a heavy wooden folding chair from the row and swung it with all my strength at Chloe and Ted. Gasps and screams erupted through the chapel. Ted lunged forward to shield Chloe, and the chair cracked violently across his back. He spun around, looking at me with absolute disgust, as if I were a rabid animal. Without another word, he wrapped his arm around Chloe and walked out. The funeral disintegrated into a circus. My relatives whispered in the corners, looking at me with a mixture of horror and pity. I thought that was the absolute limit of their cruelty. But it was only the preface. That night, as I walked to my car in the rain, someone struck me from behind. A blunt force shattered against the back of my skull. As my vision faded into black, the last thing I felt was hands tearing at my collar. When I finally woke up, I was lying on the cold hardwood floor of my home. My phone was vibrating itself off the kitchen counter. My private photos—nude, compromising, and humiliating—had been leaked to every major media outlet in the city. My phone number had been posted online. Disgusting texts flooded my screen every second. Hey beautiful, saw your pictures. How much for a night? So this is the great Virgil heiress. Just another trashy rich girl whose parents died and left her with zero class. We got your address, babe. Some of the guys are coming over to keep you company. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the device. The phone rang. It was Chloe. “Did you like my little housewarming gift, Bridget?” her voice was sickeningly sweet. “You humiliated me at the funeral. You tried to hit me. Ted was furious. He hired those guys to take those photos. How does it feel?” “You touch me, and he makes you pay a thousand times over. Now the whole city knows exactly what you look like under those expensive clothes.” Her laughter rang through the receiver like a cheap, tinny bell. Before I could speak, an email notification popped up on the screen. I opened it with numb fingers. Dear Ms. Virgil, by executive decision of the board of directors, you have been removed from your seat effective immediately. Furthermore, your remaining shares have been transferred to Charles Virgil. If you have any questions, please contact legal… My uncle. Before Nana’s body was even cold, Uncle Charles had used the scandal to stage a coup, stripping me of my inheritance and my father’s legacy. Why? What did I do to deserve this? My grandmother was gone. My child was gone. My company was gone. I had nothing left. Outside, the heavy thudding on my front door grew louder. I couldn’t tell if it was reporters or the men from the internet. They were shouting my name, laughing, calling out to me. The familiar, suffocating darkness from ten years ago returned, heavier than ever. I dragged myself into the bathroom, locked the door, sat on the cold tile floor, and picked up a piece of broken glass. In another part of the city, Ted’s phone chimed with a breaking news alert: Local heiress involved in recent high-society scandal found dead in her home of an apparent suicide.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497714”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night my wife left for her business trip, her assistant sent me a photo. In it, the two of them lay tangled in a mess of white hotel sheets, fast asleep. He had even added a smug, provocative caption: Hey bro, your wife’s got great technique. She’s mine now. I didn’t reply. Instead, I opened our company’s Slack workspace. There were two hundred and thirty-six people online. I uploaded the photo to the general announcement channel and typed: “Congratulations to our executive assistant, Tim, on his outstanding performance. Effective immediately, he will be taking on the additional role of the CEO’s husband. Compensation negotiable.” I turned off my phone and went to sleep. When I powered it back on the next morning, I had 136 missed calls. Her voice notes were a mix of desperate tears and furious curses. But the only thing I wanted to say to her was: you chose him, Meredith. Now you carry the weight of that choice. 01 My phone buzzed against the nightstand. I swiped it open. It was a photo. Meredith, my wife, lay next to another man. They were naked, their arms draped over each other on the crisp white linen of a hotel bed. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep, a faint, contented smile gracing her lips. The man had leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead while holding up his phone to snap the picture. Only half of his face was visible, but his eyes gleamed with triumphant malice. I recognized him immediately. Tim, Meredith’s assistant. Beneath the image, a text block popped up: “Hey bro, your wife’s got great technique. She’s mine now.” I stared at those words for a long time. My thumb hovered over the screen. I felt no urge to type a response. I felt no sudden surge of rage. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a cold, calloused hand, and then, just as suddenly, the hand let go, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, ringing numbness. I backed out of the private chat and opened a different app. “Meridan Digital (236)” I had renamed the all-staff Slack channel on the day Meredith and I got married. Meridan was a portmanteau of our names—Meredith and Daniel. Two hundred and thirty-six people. Every single employee from the executive suite down to the developers was in that workspace, excluding only the evening custodial staff. I selected the photo. I clicked send. Then, in the text field, I typed out each word with deliberate, steady strokes: “Congratulations to our executive assistant, Tim, on his outstanding performance. Effective immediately, he will be taking on the additional role of the CEO’s husband. Compensation negotiable. Please govern yourselves accordingly.” I hit enter. The gray delivery checkmark turned green, confirming the message had gone through. I scrolled through the member directory until I found Meredith’s avatar. It was a photo of us on a beach in Maui, her laughter captured mid-breath, radiating warmth. I tapped her profile, clicked the settings icon, and selected Remove from Workspace. Then I found Tim’s profile. Remove from Workspace. With that, the world went quiet. I toggled my phone to airplane mode and tossed it onto the nightstand. The bedroom was swallowed by darkness, the heavy blackout curtains blocking out the city lights. This was our master bedroom. We had been married for three years, but Meredith had slept in this bed for cumulative total of less than three months. She always told me she was too busy. The company was in a critical scaling phase; she had to fly out for client dinners, attend late-night networking events, and close venture rounds. She used to say, “Daniel, you’re the only one who truly understands me.” And I did. I had handed her the very company I built from the ground up, along with the title of CEO. I told her, “You go chase your dreams. I’ll keep the home fires burning.” Now, her dream was fully realized. But our home was gone. Perhaps it was for the best. I lay back down and closed my eyes. For the first time in three years, I fell asleep within minutes. 02 Turning my phone back on the next morning felt like detonating a bomb. The lock screen was buried under an avalanche of red notification badges. WhatsApp: 99+. iMessage: 99+. Missed calls: 136. Half of them were from Meredith. The other half came from an unrecognized number—presumably Tim. There were also several missed calls from my mother-in-law and father-in-law. I opened my voicemail first. The most recent one was from Meredith, recorded just a minute ago. “Daniel! You absolute lunatic! You’ve ruined me! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” Her voice was shrill, raw, and trembling with a jagged edge, like a rusted saw cutting through dry timber. “You put that photo in the company Slack?! Are you out of your mind?! What is this going to do to our valuation? How am I supposed to show my face in the office?!” “You’re nothing but a pathetic freeloader who hides at home cooking dinner! You think you can blackmail me with this cheap, low-class stunt?!” “I’m telling you right now, you are going to delete that message immediately! You will tell everyone it was a deepfake, that you were drunk and playing a sick joke! Do you hear me?!” “If you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll make sure you don’t get a single penny in the divorce! You just wait!” The message cut off. I deleted it without a change in my expression. I played the next one. It was her again. “Dan… baby, please… I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please just give me one more chance…” Her tone had shifted entirely, dropping into a soft, fragile whimper punctuated by choked sobs. “He set me up, Dan. He drugged my drink… I didn’t want this. You’re the only man I love, I swear to God…” “Have you forgotten our early days? Have you forgotten why we named the company Meridan? It was built on our love story, Dan. You can’t just throw that away…” “Please come home, baby. Let’s talk face-to-face. We can fix this. Let’s not let everyone else laugh at us… Where are you? Turn on your phone. Just talk to me, please…” I pressed delete again. She was a brilliant actress. She always had been—in front of the board of directors, in interviews with TechCrunch, in front of her parents. The perfect founder, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife. Unfortunately for her, I was her most observant, and now her most sober, audience member. I logged into the company Slack. Overnight, someone had renamed the channel from Meridan Digital to The CEO Husband Application Pool. The digital workspace had descended into absolute chaos, with tens of thousands of messages clogging the threads. Some expressed shock, others shared memes, some condemned me, while a quiet few offered subtle signs of solidarity. Our Vice President, Philip—a younger colleague I had personally mentored and brought into the company—had posted a single message in the main channel: “Dan, we’ve got your back.” It had dozens of thumbs-up and “+1” reactions beneath it. I let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. My phone began to vibrate violently again. The caller ID read: Mandy. My mother-in-law. I swiped to answer. “Daniel! You ungrateful bastard! Have you lost your mind?! What have you done to my daughter?!” Her voice boomed through the receiver, carrying her signature, overbearing hostility. I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear. “Mandy,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I didn’t do anything.” “You didn’t do anything?! You blasted that obscene photo to her entire company! How is she supposed to lead? How are we supposed to show our faces in public?!” “Mandy, I didn’t take that photo.” “I don’t care who took it! You’re a grown man, Daniel! Can’t you show some grace to your wife? Meredith is a young woman fighting tooth and nail in a ruthless industry! Do you have any idea how much pressure she’s under? So what if she made one tiny mistake? Did you really have to be this cruel?!” Her logic was as twisted as it had always been. “So, because she’s under pressure, I’m expected to carry the weight of her betrayal?” I asked. “Of course you are! You’re her husband! If you don’t clean up her mess, who will?! I am telling you, Daniel—right now, you are going to issue a public apology to everyone! You will tell them you fabricated the photo because you were jealous of her success, that you’re suffering from some kind of mental breakdown!” I remained silent. Thinking her intimidation had worked, Mandy softened her tone slightly. “Dan, listen to me. Marriage has its rough patches, but couples work through these things. Meredith still cares about you. Just swallow your pride, apologize, and we can put this behind us. We’re still a family.” “Mandy,” I interrupted. “Yes? I knew you’d see sense!” I paused, letting the silence stretch before speaking each word with absolute clarity. “You’re right. I am her husband, and I should deal with this. In fact, I’ve prepared a very special gift for Meredith. You and she will both receive it shortly.” With that, I hung up. I blocked her number. 03 The doorbell rang. It was entirely expected. I looked through the peephole. Mandy’s face, contorted with rage, was practically pressed against the camera. Behind her stood my father-in-law, Thomas, looking small and deeply uncomfortable. “Daniel! Open the door! I know you’re in there! You coward, you’re brave enough to ruin her online but too chicken to face us?!” She pounded her fist against the heavy mahogany door, the solid thuds echoing through the foyer. I didn’t answer. Instead, I leaned against the entryway wall and lit a cigarette. It was a habit I had abandoned three years ago because Meredith despised the smell of smoke, claiming it was a crutch for people who couldn’t handle pressure. Now, I welcomed the familiar burn. The smoke curled toward the ceiling, making me cough slightly, but it cleared the remaining fog from my mind. Outside, the shouting continued. The insults transitioned from “ungrateful” and “leech” to “a useless parasite living off our family.” She seemed to have forgotten that this brownstone was bought entirely by me before the marriage, paid in full, with only my name on the deed. She had forgotten that the red Porsche her daughter drove was a thirtieth birthday gift from me. And she had certainly forgotten that when Meridan Digital was on the verge of bankruptcy, I had emptied my personal accounts and mortgaged my parents’ home to give the company enough runway to survive. People have remarkably selective memories when it suits them. After about thirty minutes of relentless shouting, Mandy’s voice grew hoarse, her energy spent. The hallway outside went quiet. I knew she was simply regrouping for her next move. Sure enough, my phone rang. This time, it was Thomas. I stubbed out the cigarette and picked up. “Thomas.” “Dan…” Thomas’s voice sounded weary and strained. “Just… just open the door and let her in so we can talk. She’s making a scene, and the neighbors are starting to stare.” “Thomas, you know exactly what she’s going to say,” I replied. There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Dan, I know. I know Meredith was wrong. We… we spoiled her,” Thomas sighed heavily. “But can you please, for my sake, and for the sake of the three years you spent together, keep this from turning into a complete circus?” “For the sake of our marriage, Thomas?” I let out a soft laugh. “Let’s talk about those three years. Three years ago, I stepped down as active lead, handed her the reins, and walked away from my own clients and industry connections so she could shine. Did that count for nothing?” “I took care of the house, made sure she came home to a hot meal, and kept her life running smoothly so she could focus entirely on work. Did that count for nothing?” “She traveled three hundred days out of the year, attending dinners and ‘expanding the business.’ I never doubted her once, and I never complained. Did that count for nothing?” My voice remained perfectly level, but I could hear Thomas’s breathing grow heavier on the other end. “I gave her everything I had—my career, my time, my absolute trust. And what did she return to me?” “A photo of her in bed with another man, and a text telling me my wife belongs to him.” “Thomas, you tell me—who was the one who abandoned the marriage?” Thomas had no answer. After a long silence, he spoke in a tone that was almost a plea. “Then… what is it you actually want?” “What do I want?” I walked back to the peephole, watching Mandy lean against the wall, catch her breath, and glare at the wood of my door with pure venom. “It’s very simple.” I spoke into the phone, knowing my words would reach both of them. “First, a divorce.” “Second, Meredith leaves with absolutely nothing.” “Third, I am taking Meridan Digital back.” A sharp gasp echoed through the receiver—I couldn’t tell if it came from Thomas or Mandy. “You’re out of your mind, Daniel! You’re dreaming!” Mandy’s voice shrieked through the line, vibrating through the speaker. I ignored her. “Thomas, I’ve given you my terms. You can head home now.” “As for the gift I prepared for Meredith…” I pulled back the living room curtains. The morning sun was bright, illuminating the street below. A black sedan had just pulled up to the curb. Two men in tailored charcoal suits stepped out, carrying heavy leather briefcases. My attorneys. “The gift has just arrived.” I hung up and unlocked the front door. As I opened it, Mandy lunged forward, but her movements froze when she saw the two stern, professional men standing right behind me. I stepped aside, gesturing into the apartment. “Mr. Adler, Mr. Gallagher, please come in.” I turned to my mother-in-law and offered her the warmest, most genuine smile I had worn in three years. “Mandy, would you like to come inside and listen?” 04 Mandy’s face cycled from a furious red to a pale, sickly gray. Her lips trembled, her finger pointing at me, but she couldn’t find her voice. Thomas gently took her arm, looking at me with pleading eyes. I looked right past them. “Mr. Adler, let’s get started.” Mr. Adler nodded, opening his briefcase and pulling out two separate documents. One was a standard divorce petition. The other was a thick, bound folder. “Mr. and Mrs. Crane,” Mr. Adler began, his voice flat, professional, and razor-sharp. “Let’s address the simplest matter first.” He slid the divorce petition across the coffee table. “This agreement stipulates that Mrs. Meredith Crane will waive all claims to marital assets and walk away with zero financial compensation. In exchange, Mr. Daniel Crane will waive his right to seek civil damages regarding her marital misconduct.” “Like hell she will!” Mandy finally found her voice, slamming her palm onto the table. “This is extortion! The company belongs to Meredith! She built it! She is entitled to half of everything! If you think she’s leaving with nothing, you’re delusional, Daniel!” I remained silent, simply gesturing for my lawyer to continue. Mr. Adler adjusted his glasses and opened the thick folder, laying out a series of detailed bank statements and receipts. “Mrs. Crane, I advise you to calm down. We are presenting this option as a courtesy to protect your daughter from far more severe consequences.” He tapped a finger on the top statement. “Last May, your daughter authorized a corporate wire of thirty-seven thousand dollars under the guise of ‘international market research.’ Our investigation shows this money was used to purchase a Patek Philippe watch. That watch is currently on Tim’s wrist.” Mandy’s breathing hitched. Mr. Adler turned the page. “Last October, she withdrew fifty thousand dollars from the company’s cash reserves for ‘client development.’ That capital was used to secure a one-year lease on a luxury apartment at The Lumina on the west side. The sole tenant of that apartment is Tim.” “And in January of this year, Tim was awarded a twenty-thousand-dollar ‘outstanding performance bonus’—an amount that far exceeds standard company policy for his pay grade. This bonus was never approved by the board; it was unilaterally signed off by your daughter.” With each point Mr. Adler read, the color drained further from Mandy’s face. He then spread out a series of high-resolution photographs over the financial documents. They showed Tim driving a brand-new BMW, entering high-end private clubs, and flashing his luxury watch. “And this is merely the tip of the iceberg,” Mr. Gallagher added, his voice cold. “Meredith Crane and Tim are facing serious exposure for using their corporate positions to misappropriate company funds. Under state law, this constitutes grand larceny and corporate embezzlement. Given the amounts involved, this carries a mandatory sentence of up to five to ten years in federal prison.” “Ten years… in prison?” Thomas murmured, his knees buckling slightly as he sank into an armchair. “So,” Mr. Adler summarized, “we are presenting you with two paths.” “Option one: Mrs. Crane signs this settlement. We handle this quietly as a private marital dispute. Mr. Crane will not press charges or report the financial discrepancies to the authorities. Her losses will be strictly financial.” He paused, letting his sharp gaze lock onto Mandy. “Option two: you reject this agreement. Tomorrow morning, we file the divorce petition in court and submit a formal criminal complaint to the District Attorney’s office. At that point, your daughter will be dealing with a highly public criminal prosecution, not just a divorce.” “I’m sure the tech press will find the story of a promising female CEO embezzling company funds to finance her assistant’s lifestyle quite fascinating.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Only the sound of Mandy’s labored breathing filled the space. She looked at the mountain of evidence on the table, then at my calm, unbothered face. The hostility in her eyes was finally replaced by a cold, quiet dread. I picked up my cup of cold tea and took a slow sip. “Mandy,” I said quietly, “do you still think I’m dreaming?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497713”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was using Connor’s phone to order DoorDash when my finger accidentally swiped onto our chat history. What met my eyes was a blinding wall of blue dots. For seven years, every single voice note I had ever sent him sat there, flagged by that tiny, unplayed blue circle. But he had replied to every single one. His responses were always the same: Sounds good. Love you, babe. In a meeting. I accidentally backed out of our thread and saw the contact he had pinned to the very top of his list. The name read: Carol – R&D. Carol’s voice notes were all a minute long—the maximum length allowed. And there wasn’t a single blue dot next to them. Connor hadn’t just listened to them; he had replied to each one with painstaking detail. Raining and you don’t have an umbrella? Don’t move. I’m getting in the car to pick you up right now. That sushi place wasn’t good? I’ll take you to that French bistro uptown tomorrow instead. Sixty seconds. Carol’s sixty seconds bought her a drive across the city in the pouring rain with an umbrella. My sixty seconds—even when I was sobbing in the dark, begging for help—bought me nothing but a dismissive, automated brush-off. Later, I dragged my suitcase out the front door. I sent him one last voice note: “Connor, we’re over.” Three seconds later, his reply came through. Sounds good. Looking at those two words, a laugh escaped my lips, light with a sudden, bone-deep relief. He really didn’t tap it to listen. Not even this time. … 1 I stared at that blinding wall of blue dots, tears instantly blurring my vision. My thumb trembled as I scrolled up. The screen was packed with those unread markers, making my chest tighten as if it were filled with crushed glass. Every breath tasted like copper. Seven whole years. Every voice note I’d sent him was left unheard. But he hadn’t always been like this. In the first two years we were together, he was different. Back then, I was the one pinned to the top of his messages. He’d look at me, smiling, and say, “Evie, your voice is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.” Even if I sent a silly three-second voice note just to tease him, he’d listen to it a dozen times. Maybe it was the nostalgia, a lingering filter of who he used to be, that made me foolishly believe that even if his replies had grown short and sparse, he was still paying attention. I thought he was just busy, but still making an effort to respond to everything. But now, those blue dots mocked me. He hadn’t opened a single one. Yet, he had answered every time. My hand shook as I tapped into his chat with Carol. The most recent messages were from this afternoon. Carol had sent a fifty-nine-second audio clip. In the background, her voice sounded playful, whining about how bitter the office coffee was. Connor had replied: I know you hate bitter things. That bag of pour-over I brought back from my last business trip is in your left desk drawer, second one down. I left some of that toasted coconut creamer you like in there, too. Help yourself. Carol sent another quick audio note, just a few seconds. Connor wrote back: Be good. I’m taking you to that private tasting menu this weekend. You know, the one with the two-week waitlist? I actually got the chef to curate it just for you. He remembered she hated bitter coffee. He remembered her favorite coconut creamer. He was even willing to pull strings and reserve an exclusive chef’s table just because she whined about an office Keurig. But what about me? A few days ago, when my fever spiked to 103 degrees, I lay shivering on the cold hardwood floor, barely able to breathe. I managed to record a voice note, begging him to bring home some fever reducers. He replied instantly: Sounds good. But that night, I lay there until dawn, shivering and cramping in agony. Connor never showed up. When he finally walked through the door the next afternoon, he was holding a takeout bag from that upscale French bistro uptown. He looked exhausted, brushing a hand over my hair. “Evie, the servers at the office crashed last night. I had to pull an all-nighter. I brought you some soup from downtown on my way back.” It turned out his “all-nighter” was spent driving across the city to eat French cuisine with another girl. It turned out his “sounds good” wasn’t a promise. It was just a way to make me go away. The sound of the shower running in the bathroom stopped. My breathing hitched, but with a terrifying, quiet calm, I exited his messages, switched back to the DoorDash app, and ordered two simple bowls of chicken ramen. The moment I set the phone down, Connor walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He walked over, pressing a natural kiss to the crown of my head. He smelled of fresh body wash. “Evie, did you order the food? I’ve been in meetings all day and I’m exhausted. Thanks for keeping it simple tonight.” His tone was gentle. Perfectly pleasant. Just like it had been every single day for the past seven years. I looked up at his face, so close to mine, and didn’t pull away. “Yeah. It’s on the way.” While we were eating, Connor reached across the table and took my hand. “Evie, this Friday is our seven-year anniversary. You didn’t forget, did you?” He looked into my eyes, his expression soft. “I booked that French restaurant you’ve been wanting to try. I don’t have to work late that day. I’ll come home early, pick you up, and we’ll celebrate properly.” My heart skipped a beat. In that split second, looking at his handsome, familiar face, I had a sudden, dizzying illusion that the boy who used to run through three blocks in the freezing rain just to buy me hot roasted nuts because I mentioned them in a three-second voice note had returned. I wondered… was I just overthinking things? Maybe he was just a manager now, used to delegating, used to scanning and replying to everyone as quickly as possible to keep things moving. Maybe that was why he didn’t have time to actually tap the play button on my voice notes? And Carol… maybe she really was just a junior employee he felt responsible for mentoring? Like a desperate gambler, I let myself lie. I gave him—and us—one last chance. Friday came. I wore the red dress he had bought me for our very first date. Connor actually left work early, looking sharp in a tailored suit. He waited for me by the entryway, and when I walked down the stairs, a genuine flash of admiration crossed his eyes. He opened the passenger side door for me, carefully shielding my head with his hand. “Evie, you look beautiful tonight.” The car radio played the old indie songs we used to love. The atmosphere was warm, thick with the sweet nostalgia of our early days. Until the car’s Bluetooth screen suddenly flashed. Incoming Call: Carol – R&D. The moment he hit answer, a girl’s panicked, tearful voice echoed through the speakers: “Connor… a pipe burst in my apartment… there’s water everywhere, and the outlets are submerged, they’re throwing sparks. I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do, I can’t go inside…” The smile vanished from Connor’s face. He slammed on the brakes. At a busy intersection where U-turns were strictly prohibited, he yanked the steering wheel, forcing the car around. He hit the gas, only then turning to look at me. I sat frozen in the passenger seat. His brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with an intense, raw anxiety he didn’t even try to hide. “Evie, Carol is all alone in the city. She has no one else to call. A flooded apartment with exposed wiring is incredibly dangerous. I have to go check on her.” He pulled the car over to the curb and hit the brakes hard. He didn’t even think to hand me the umbrella. He just urged me out: “It’s hard to turn around up ahead. Just get off here and take an Uber to the restaurant. Order whatever you want and wait for me. I’ll handle this and come straight to you, okay, babe?” Before I could even open my mouth, I was ushered out of the car. The icy autumn wind, heavy with freezing rain, cut right through my trench coat. I stood on the waterlogged sidewalk, watching his car tear into the curtain of rain like an arrow, its red taillights quickly dissolving into a blurry crimson dot. The cold rain lashed against my face. Suddenly, my stomach churned, and a sharp, familiar ache flared up in the lower right side of my abdomen—right where the scar had barely healed. Two weeks ago, on a night just as rainy and brutal as this one. I had a sudden, acute attack of appendicitis. The pain was so agonizing I was rolling on the freezing floor, unable to even stand. I desperately held down the record button, weeping into the phone: “Connor, my stomach hurts so bad… please help me, please come home and take me to the hospital…” I sent three voice notes in a row. Three minutes later, he replied with two words: In a meeting. That night, I had to drag myself to the front door, barely conscious, just to unlock it for the paramedics. The surgeon told me later that if I had arrived twenty minutes later, the appendix would have ruptured, and I might not have made it. And now, a leaky pipe in Carol’s apartment was a life-or-death emergency in his eyes. The truth finally broke through: he didn’t love me anymore. It had started with the very first dismissive word, the very first unplayed voice note. The freezing wind blew away the last shred of denial in my mind. I didn’t call an Uber to the expensive French restaurant. Instead, I turned around, walked into the subway station, and went home. When I pushed the door open, I went straight to the bedroom. This time, without a single moment of hesitation, I reached into the deepest corner of the closet and dragged out the large black suitcase.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497712”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years ago, I wanted to call the police. Instead, my husband blindfolded me and dragged me down into a subterranean concrete room. One thousand days and nights. Completely cut off from the sun. Every time a session of torment ended, that cold, familiar voice would echo in the dark: “Have you signed yet?” I didn’t sign. For three years, I didn’t put pen to paper. Not a single letter. But tonight, a historic storm blew the main transformer. The electronic lock failed. 1 Black. An endless, suffocating black. I had lost track of how long I’d been trapped in this darkness. There were no windows, no light, and even the heavy air carried the scent of rust and damp earth. My back was pressed flat against the freezing concrete wall. The shackles on my wrists had worn thick, raw calluses over old scars, which themselves covered older scars. Water dripped from somewhere in the ceiling, splashing onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. That was how I counted the days. Every seven hundred drips, the heavy iron door would creak. A sound meant someone was coming. And someone coming meant another round of torment. Tonight was the third time. Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, the slow, deliberate scuff of leather shoes on concrete. I closed my eyes. Even though there was no difference between open and closed in this absolute void, it was the only small act of rebellion I had left. The iron door groaned on its hinges. A gust of freezing air rushed in, making my skin prickle. “Delia.” The voice sounded. It was as cold as ice dropping into an empty glass, stripped of any warmth. Three years ago, that same voice had whispered, Happy birthday, sweetheart. On the phone, he used to tease, If you don’t come home right now, I’m throwing out all your dresses. Now, his voice only knew one question. “Have you signed yet?” I didn’t move. Splash. A bucket of freezing water drenched me from head to toe. It was November in the basement; the temperature couldn’t have been more than forty degrees. The icy water soaked my thin, tattered shirt, biting into every raw cut on my body. My muscles seized; my teeth chattered violently. But I didn’t make a sound. In three years, I had learned the art of silence. “Stubborn,” Richard murmured from above. I could only smell his cologne. It used to be the warm pine scent I had bought for him. Now, he wore something sharp and aggressive—a cold cedar. “Do you know what day it is, Delia?” I didn’t answer. “Our anniversary. The sixth one. For the first three, I bought you cake, made dinner, wore that shirt you loved. And the last three…” He paused. “You’ve spent down here.” I swallowed hard. “I brought the papers,” he said. The rustle of paper echoed in the small space. “A power of attorney for your assets, the transfer of the Shaw Trust, and the divorce papers. Three documents. Sign them, and you walk out of here.” He forced a pen into my hand. I gripped it, feeling the lingering warmth of his fingers on the plastic. Then, I threw it. It clattered against the iron door and rolled away into the dark. Three seconds of silence. “You’ll regret this,” Richard said, his voice flat. His footsteps receded. The iron door slammed shut. The latch clicked like a heavy sigh. I leaned my head back against the rough concrete. I didn’t regret it. One thousand and ninety-five days. Every day, I made the same choice. No. Not for the money, or the trust. I was waiting. Waiting for an opening. Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the earth. I tilted my head up. Though blindfolded, I could feel it—tonight’s storm was different. The ground vibrated. The sound above wasn’t just dripping; it was a torrential, violent downpour, like a fire hose blasting the ceiling. A historic storm. My heart skipped a beat. I started counting. The first clap of thunder, distant. The second, closer. The third— BOOM. The entire basement shuddered as if kicked by a giant. Something blew overhead with a muffled pop, followed by the sharp crackle of short-circuiting electricity. The smell of singed wires filled the air. Then— Click. The electronic lock, the barrier that had kept me caged for three years, gave a soft, mechanical sigh. My pupils contracted behind the blindfold. I knew that sound intimately. For years, I’d heard it click open and closed. The bolt had retracted. The power was out. I didn’t hesitate. I threw my entire weight against the left chain—the one I had spent three years scraping against the concrete. The thinnest link was barely a third of its original width. With a desperate heave, it snapped. The sound of tearing metal exploded in the darkness. Pain shot up my arm as the metal tore away a layer of skin, warm blood dripping from my fingers. I didn’t care. I stood up. For the first time in three years, I stood on my own two feet. My knees popped in protest; my legs buckled under my weight. Clinging to the wall, I dragged myself to the door. My hand found the handle. I hesitated. What if it was a trap? What if someone was waiting? What if… I pushed the door. The hallway was dark, but a different kind of dark. At the far end, a sliver of light filtered through a crack. Light. Tears welled in my eyes. Not from emotion, but because my pupils, accustomed to absolute blackness, screamed at even this faint glimmer. Shielding my eyes with my forearm, I groped along the wall. Stairs. Going up. One step, two steps, three… Each step felt like a small bomb exploding in my joints. My muscles had severely atrophied; I was shaking, on the verge of collapsing. But I didn’t stop. The eighteenth step. I pushed open the final door. Wind. Rain. Slapping my face, soaking my skin. I shook violently from the cold. But I stood there, head tilted back, letting the storm wash away the blood and grime of three years. I was looking at the sky. A dark, angry, lightning-torn sky, but it was the sky. I didn’t laugh; I didn’t cry. I looked around. I was in the backyard of a secluded estate. The walls were high, lined with manicured hedges. I recognized it—Greenbriar Estates, out in the northern suburbs. Three years ago, Richard had mentioned wanting to buy a house here. I’d told him it was too isolated. He bought it anyway. With my money. Then he locked me underneath it. My eyes swept the yard and landed on the garage. A white Porsche was parked there. The license plate was unfamiliar. I didn’t try the car. I climbed the wall. My muscles cramped so badly as I scaled the bricks that I fell hard into the mud on the other side. Rainwater filled my mouth; dirt covered my face. I dragged myself up and stumbled toward the main road. Behind me, the house flashed under a bolt of lightning, standing silent in the deluge. I didn’t look back. 2 I spent the entire night huddled under an abandoned bus shelter by the highway. The storm raged for six hours before finally tapering off. As the sky bled into a hazy, bruised gray, I saw my hands clearly for the first time. Skeletal. Prominent joints, pale skin mapped with a web of scars and bruises. The gash on my wrist from the chain was still sluggishly oozing, turning the rainwater on my hands a pale pink. I looked down at my body. A thin gray shirt, stiff with dirt, hung loosely over ribs that looked like slats on a cage. I was a walking skeleton. Next to the shelter was a shattered billboard, its broken glass reflecting my face. I froze. I barely recognized the woman staring back. My hair fell tangled past my shoulders; my face was hollow, my skin so dry and weathered I looked twenty years older. My cheekbones protruded sharply, my eyes sunken. The only familiar thing was the color of my eyes. Dark and heavy. Like they were three years ago, yet entirely different. Back then, there was warmth. Now, there was nothing. A garbage truck rumbled down the highway. The driver honked twice, leaning out to peer at me. Assuming I was just another homeless person, he cursed under his breath and drove on. I stood up and began walking toward the city. I needed to establish some facts. After forty minutes of walking, I reached a twenty-four-hour convenience store. The automatic doors slid open, and a wave of artificial heat hit me. My body convulsed with a violent shiver—I hadn’t felt heating in three years. The cashier, a kid in his early twenties, looked up. Terror flashed across his face, and his hand hovered instinctively beneath the counter. “Don’t worry,” I croaked. My voice was a dry, rasping whisper, as if my throat were lined with sandpaper. “I…” I pointed to the newspaper rack near the door. “What is today’s date?” He swallowed hard. “November seventeenth.” “What year?” His expression shifted from fear to profound confusion. “2027.” I gripped the shelf to steady myself. 2027. I had been taken in September 2024. Three years and two months. I took a deep breath. “Can I borrow your phone? I’ve… been in an accident.” He hesitated, but eventually pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over. My fingers shook as I typed my own name into the search bar: Delia Shaw. When the results loaded, my breath caught. The first headline was dated March 2026: Missing for Eighteen Months, Chicago Tech Executive Delia Shaw Declared Dead by Court. I clicked it. “…Delia Shaw, 31, former Vice President of Valiant Group, went missing on September 15, 2024. Her husband, Richard Clifford, reported her disappearance… After extensive searches yielded no results, Clifford filed a petition… On March 11, 2026, the Cook County Circuit Court officially declared her dead.” I stared at the words husband, Richard Clifford, reported her disappearance. A grim laugh caught in my throat. He filed the report. He locked me in a cellar and then walked straight into a police station to report me missing. I scrolled down. The second headline, August 2026: Following Death Declaration of Late VP Delia Shaw, Husband Richard Clifford Marries Sabrina Heiress Viola Sabrina in Private Ceremony. There was a photo. Richard in a tailored tuxedo, beside a woman in a sweeping white gown, her arm looped through his, smiling radiantly. I zoomed in on her face. Viola Sabrina. I knew her. We’d crossed paths once at a business gala three years ago. Early thirties, the only daughter of Edward Sabrina, heiress to Sabrina Enterprises. I remembered the way she looked at Richard back then—a look that made me question things, a look Richard dismissed when we got home. You’re overthinking it, babe. She’s just being polite. Do you not trust me? I had apologized, feeling foolish. I kept scrolling. Third headline, January 2027: Estate of Declared Deceased Delia Shaw Settled; Husband Richard Clifford Inherits Full Assets. Everything. My shares, my properties, my savings. Everything. Except for one thing. I backed out of the search and typed in another term: Shaw Family Trust. Only a few old articles popped up, with no records of any changes. A cold smile touched my lips. The Shaw Trust. My father had set it up before he died, hiring the best estate lawyers in the state to make it airtight. The terms were absolute: any transfer, modification, or termination of the trust required the beneficiary to sign in person, in front of at least three witnesses and a notary, with biometric verification and a video recording. Miss one step, and the funds remained locked. That was why Richard hadn’t killed me. That was why he spent three years asking me, “Have you signed yet?” Eight hundred million dollars. I handed the phone back to the clerk. “Thank you.” I turned to leave. “Hey,” the kid called out behind me. “Do you… do you need something to eat? You look…” He didn’t finish the sentence. I paused. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a warm, real meal. In the cellar, it was cold bread and a cup of water twice a day. If Richard was in a foul mood, sometimes not even that. “Give me some instant ramen,” I rasped. “Hot.” Three minutes later, I was huddled outside the convenience store, holding a steaming paper cup. When the first sip of hot broth hit my throat, my stomach cramped violently. Acid flared, and I nearly threw up. It had been too long since I’d had anything warm. I forced myself to keep drinking. The hot liquid slowly made its way down, like a thin line of fire thawing out my frozen internal organs. When I finished the last noodle, I set the cup down. I stood up. And began the long walk toward the heart of Chicago. I had to find someone. 3 North Chicago. A gritty, older residential neighborhood. I stood before a peeling, rusted security door and knocked. Thump. Thump. Thump. From inside came the scuff of slippers on hardwood, followed by a loud, irritated voice: “Who the hell is knocking this early?” The door swung open. A woman stood there—short hair, sharp jawline, military posture. She held a mug of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten bagel in her mouth. Dana Gallagher. Former Captain in the Army Special Forces. After retiring, she’d set up a small private security firm in the city. Just enough to pay the bills. We had huddled in the same trenches, survived freezing nights in the mountains of Afghanistan, and trusted each other with our lives. Dana stared at me. The bagel slipped from her mouth, dropping right into her coffee mug and splashing it all over her shirt. She didn’t blink. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted slightly, holding the dripping mug mid-air as coffee spilled over the rim. “…Delia?” her voice cracked. I leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile touching my lips. “Can I borrow some coffee?” Dana dropped the mug. It shattered on the floor, splashing dark liquid everywhere. She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders with a grip tight enough to break bone. Then she really saw me—the hollow cheeks, the sunken eyes, the skeletal frame, and the blood-soaked fabric wrapped around my wrist. Her lips trembled. “What the actual—” She stopped herself, wrapping an arm around me and dragging me inside. An hour later, I had showered and changed into some of Dana’s clothes. The sleeves swam on me, and the waistband of her pants could have fit two of me. I sat on her sofa, looking at a spread of food—Dana had practically emptied her fridge. “Eat slowly,” she said, sitting across from me. I didn’t reply. Rice, roasted chicken, hot soup—things I hadn’t touched in three years. I ate quietly, but my fork didn’t stop until I finished three helpings. Only then did I set the utensils down. “Ask,” I said, meeting her eyes. Dana stubbed out her cigarette. “You first. Where the hell have you been for three years?” “Locked in a basement.” Dana froze. My voice was flat, as if I were reciting someone else’s story. “Richard. September 15, 2024. He drugged my drink. When I woke up, I was in a cellar. Shackled. No light. Cold bread and water twice a day. He hired a guard to torture me periodically—water, electric shocks, other things. After every session, he’d show up and ask if I was ready to sign over the trust.” My voice didn’t waver. Dana’s cigarette burned down to her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Three years,” I said. “He kept me down there for three years.” Dana’s jaw clenched, her face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. She slammed her hands onto the table, standing up so fast her chair scraped hard against the wall. “I’ll kill that piece of—” “Sit down,” I said. She was breathing heavily, her fists white. “Sit down,” I repeated, holding her gaze. “And let me finish.” She slowly sat back down, teeth gritted. “I need to know what happened while I was gone,” I said. “From the outside.” Dana took a long drag of a fresh cigarette before speaking. “September 2024, Richard went to the police and reported you missing. He left your phone, wallet, and ID at home—which makes sense now. The police investigated for months but found nothing. They found your car near the river upstate, door open, keys in the ignition.” “A setup,” I noted. “Yeah. And everyone bought it. At the time, things at Valiant Group weren’t going well, and everyone knew you were under immense pressure.” I remained silent. Three years ago, Valiant Group indeed faced a massive cash flow crisis. I had been working eighty-hour weeks trying to keep it afloat. Richard had chosen the perfect moment. “In 2025, the search stalled. I went to General Briggs—” “Walter Briggs?” “Yes. The General. I knew something was off. You aren’t the type to just vanish without a word, no matter how bad things get. The General agreed and had some people quietly look into it. But they couldn’t find anything. Richard played the grieving husband perfectly—crying to the cops, doing local news interviews.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “Then, in March 2026, Richard petitioned the court to declare you dead. Once the ruling went through, he inherited everything—your shares, your properties, your bank accounts.” “How much?” “He liquidated your shares for about forty million, plus another thirty million in real estate and savings. Around seventy million total.” “And then?” “August 2026, he married Viola Sabrina.” “When did he start seeing her?” Dana set her cup down, her eyes cold. “I did some digging later. Their affair started in early 2024. At least six months before you disappeared.” Six months. For half a year before he threw me into that hole, my husband had been sleeping with another woman. He had cooked my dinners, kissed me goodnight, and left a light on for me when I worked late—all while planning my living burial. I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold. “What about the Sabrinas’ background?” “Edward Sabrina’s only daughter. Sabrina Enterprises dominates real estate and development in Chicago. Wealthy, connected, powerful. When your company’s supply chain collapsed back then, I looked into it later—someone had sabotaged your vendors.” “Viola?” “I don’t have direct proof, but the timeline matches perfectly.” I set my cup down. “And the trust?” Dana paused. “How did you know—” “I guessed. There’s only one reason he kept me alive for three years.” Dana nodded. “The Shaw Trust. Eight hundred million dollars. The terms are ironclad—no signature, no money. He couldn’t touch it, even with a death certificate, because your father had structured it to be entirely separate from your personal estate.” “So he couldn’t kill me.” “He needed you alive to sign.” I leaned back into the sofa, my eyes half-closed. “Where is General Briggs now?” “Still in Chicago. He retired last year, but he still has major sway. He never stopped looking into your case. He just mentioned it to me last month.” “Get me a meeting with him.” “When?” “Today.” Dana stared at me for a few seconds, then stood up to grab her keys. At the door, she paused. “Delia.” “Yeah?” “What’s the plan?” I opened my eyes. The coldness in them made Dana stiffen. “For one thousand and ninety-five days, he asked me if I was going to sign,” I whispered. “Now, it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497711”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the celestial waiting room, standing in the queue for reincarnation, I saw a baby crib encrusted with real diamonds, destined for the country’s wealthiest family. Without a second thought, I elbowed my way to the front and jumped right into their golden lineage. But wealth, I soon learned, comes with a brutal price tag. By the time I was almost a year old, my parents were dangling solid gold bars in front of my face, testing me. “Sweetheart,” they’d coo, “when you finally speak, are you going to say ‘Dada’ or ‘Mama’ first?” In my first life, I said “Mama” first. My father’s face darkened instantly. “I spent millions on your trust fund and the best doctors in Manhattan,” he snarled, “you should have said Dada!” In his petty fury, he kicked my hand-carved Italian crib. It tipped over, and the fall ended my first shot at luxury before it even began. In my second life, I learned my lesson. I looked right at him and squeaked “Dada.” He cheered, but my mother’s eyes turned to ice. She called me a cold, ungrateful little leech. Within weeks, she checked into a fertility clinic to prepare for a “do-over baby.” Discarded and forgotten in the nursery, I caught a severe fever that no one bothered to treat, and died in shivering neglect. In my third life, I tried to play the long game. The real power in the Bradford dynasty lay with Grandmother Emily, the formidable matriarch who controlled the family fortune. I’ll say ‘Nana’ first, I thought. Surely that’s safe. But when I did, Emily stared at me through her designer spectacles and shook her head. “A child who doesn’t bond with her own parents is cold-hearted. She’s calculated. Send her away to boarding school in Switzerland; she’ll never be one of us.” The sheer terror of being exiled squeezed my tiny lungs. I panicked, stopped breathing, and literally suffocated on my own fear. Now, this is my fourth attempt. Here we are again. The entire family is gathered around my crib, holding their breath, waiting for me to speak. I keep my lips pressed tight, terrified to let out even a squeak. Who on earth do I call out to first… just to survive in this billionaire circus? 1 Seeing me remain stubbornly silent, my mother, Victoria, gently pinched my cheek. “I went through thirty-six hours of grueling labor, darling, and I haven’t slept a full night since you were born. You’re going to say ‘Mama’ first, aren’t you?” Her smile was soft, radiating the kind of manicured maternal warmth that belongs on a magazine cover. But looking into her eyes, terror rippled through my tiny chest. I remembered my first life all too clearly. Back then, I’d looked at her tired eyes, felt that primal infant pull toward the woman who carried me, and chirped “Mama” without a second thought. Who could have guessed that a single word would trigger my father’s insatiable, competitive ego? To him, my choice was a public humiliation, a sign that he had lost. The memory of his face, veins bulging as he kicked my crib, made me instinctively pull my head back into my shoulders. No. I had fought too hard to get back into this tax bracket. I couldn’t afford to offend my billionaire father. But my father, Thomas, was also waiting, leaning over the railing with an expectant grin. Seeing the sheer hesitation on my face, he chuckled. “Look at that clever little expression. She’s actually weighing her options. She’s thinking, Dada bought me a custom yacht and a brownstone in the West Village before I could even crawl. I’d better play my cards right. She’s definitely going to say ‘Dada’ first.” I forced a toothless, awkward grin, screaming internally. Oh, if only he knew. In my second life, I had figured he was my ultimate meal ticket. If I wanted to inherit the Bradford billions, I had to stroke his ego. So I ignored my mother and happily cooed “Dada.” He was ecstatic. He literally called his broker to buy me a yacht on the spot. But my mother’s heart shattered. That very night, she dragged him into their dressing room, declaring they needed to “try again” for a baby who would actually love her. I thought she was just being dramatic. But from that day on, I became a ghost in my own home. She poured all her energy into IVF treatments, completely freezing me out. She didn’t even notice when my temperature spiked to a lethal hundred and four. Those two brutal demises taught me a cold, hard truth: choosing either parent was a death sentence. Seeing my expression wobble between a smile and a grimace, Grandmother Emily let out a dry, patrician laugh. “Who says Charlotte will choose either of you? What if her very first word is ‘Nana’?” She lifted me from the crib, cradling me with an air of absolute authority. “Listen to me, little one. You say ‘Nana’ first, and I’ll rewrite the family trust tomorrow. You will be the sole heir to the Bradford empire.” The temptation was astronomical. And a cold sweat broke out across my back. 2 In my third life, I had fallen for that exact trap. I had assumed her fondness was genuine, that securing the matriarch’s favor was the ultimate shield. But when I squeaked out “Nana,” my parents didn’t even have time to react before Emily’s face hardened. “A child should love her parents above all else,” she had declared coldly to the room. “To ignore them and fawning over an old woman… it’s unnatural. She is far too calculating, too opportunistic. That kind of greed can’t be nurtured. We should quietly send her away before she becomes a liability.” In the Bradford family, when Grandmother Emily suggested “sending someone away,” it was as good as done. The sheer injustice of it, mixed with the terror of losing everything, had literally suffocated me right there. Recalling those three miserable, absurd deaths, I made a firm decision: I was going to play dumb. I would play the mute. Keep my mouth shut, offend absolutely no one, and buy myself some time. Once this immediate crisis passed, I could figure out a long-term strategy. So, I let out a loud, bubbly baby giggle and reached my hands high into the air. My parents leaned in close, their eyes wide. “What is she doing?” I timed it perfectly. The moment my tiny hands reached their peak, I grabbed. Left hand wrapped around my father’s thumb; right hand clamped onto my mother’s index finger. Both of them instantly lit up, their rivalries melting into sheer delight. “Oh, look at our clever girl! She’s barely a year old and she already knows how to keep the peace!” But I wasn’t done. To make sure my bases were fully covered, I tilted my head back and sweetly nudged my forehead against Grandmother Emily’s chin. The three of them erupted into laughter, passing me around like a prized trophy. For the moment, the dreaded question of “Dada” or “Mama” was successfully shelved. I had survived the fatal trap of my past lives. I thought I could finally catch my breath. But that very night, the peace shattered. My bedroom door creaked open, and my father slipped quietly to the side of my crib. “Hey there, Charlotte,” he whispered, holding up his phone with an eager, recording grin. “Just give Dada one little word. Just a quick ‘Dada’ so I can show the guys at the club, okay?” He leaned over, shining the screen light in my eyes. “All my partners’ kids said ‘Mama’ first. If you say ‘Dada’ first, I’ll have bragging rights for the next ten years. Besides, I already told the board you’re a daddy’s girl. Don’t make me look like a fool, sweetheart.” I stared at him, my eyelids twitching. So that was why he had lost his mind in my first life. It wasn’t about love; it was about his fragile, billionaire ego at the country club. I let out a silent, weary sigh. The man had a net worth of fifty billion dollars, and he was losing sleep over a toddler’s vocabulary. But then I shook myself. If solving this petty insecurity was the key to spending the rest of my life lounging on a private island, I had to pull myself together. I stared up at him, my brain working at warp speed. Think, think, think. How do I make him happy without making Mom want to replace me? “I set up a fifty-million-dollar trust for you the day you were born, Charlotte. I bought you a penthouse, a fleet of strollers, and I’m transferring shares to your name for your first birthday. I do all of this, and you won’t even say ‘Dada’ for me?” Seeing the dangerous shade of disappointment creeping onto his face, my survival instincts kicked in. I scrambled around my crib, grabbed the heavy gold Cartier bracelet my mother had left on my dresser, and shoved it into his hand. Before he could process that, I piled my favorite stuffed bear, my teething rings, and my custom rattle into his arms, babbling frantically in baby talk. My father stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, staring at the pile in his hands. Finally, a slow, ecstatic realization washed over him. “Are you… are you giving me your favorite things, Charlotte?” My cheeks flushed red as I nodded vigorously. He looked like he had just won the lottery. “You’re barely a year old, and you’re already showing gratitude? You’re giving your own father gifts?” He scooped me up, kissing my cheeks repeatedly, before frantically snapping selfies. “Look at this! My daughter is giving me presents! Take that, you guys!” He spent the next hour bragging in his group chats, ordering ten more designer toys for me on his phone before finally slipping out of the room. I collapsed back onto my mattress, exhaling a sigh of relief. But the door clicked open again. My mother walked in, her face clouded with quiet resentment. “Charlotte… how could you do that to me?” 3 My breath hitched in my throat. That look of deep, stinging disappointment on her face was identical to the one from my second life. “Your father might have the money, but I gave you life,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she sat on the edge of the crib. “I went through body-altering physical changes for you. I tore, I bled, I lost sleep to nurse you, and you give him gifts while I get nothing?” She pulled me into her arms, pouring out her grievances. But I wasn’t really listening to the words anymore; I was analyzing the situation. Her tone wasn’t as icy as it had been in my second life. She wasn’t planning to replace me yet; she was just deeply hurt, reacting like a child who had been left out of a game. There was still room to fix this. I wiggled out of her embrace and crawled as fast as my chubby limbs could carry me toward the nightstand. I knew that in the bottom drawer, my parents kept the deed to my custom-built nursery mansion in the Hamptons and the spare keys to the family’s armored Rolls-Royce. I tugged at the drawer with all my might, grunting with exertion. Seeing me struggle, my mother wiped a stray tear and opened it for me. “Charlotte, what are you looking for? Mommy can help—” Before she could finish, I grabbed the heavy leather-bound deed and dropped it right onto her lap. While she stared at it in shock, I reached back in, grabbed the heavy silver Rolls-Royce keys, and plonked them into her palm. Just like with my father, I didn’t say a single word. I simply looked up at her with the most innocent, adoring baby-eyed smile I could muster, babbling happily. My mother looked from the keys to the deed, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. “Oh my god… Charlotte, are you giving me your mansion and the Rolls? You’re giving away your most expensive assets without a second thought… You really are Mommy’s little angel, aren’t you?” She practically floated out of the room, shouting down the hallway: “Thomas! You bragged too early! Charlotte loves me way more! She gave you plastic toys, but she just gave me a mansion and a Rolls-Royce!” I collapsed back onto my pillow. So that was it. My father’s loud-mouthed bragging had triggered her insecurity. Now, both of them were thrilled, reverting to a childish debate over who was truly the favorite. “She gave me her favorite bear first, Victoria! That means I’m number one!” “She gave me real estate, Thomas! Real estate!” Even so, the fundamental problem remained: they were still waiting for that first spoken word. I had no solution, so I kept playing the mute, dragging it out day by day. But a few days later, my stalling tactics caught up with me. My parents marched me into a private clinic, sitting me down in front of a team of world-renowned pediatric neuroscientists. “Is there something wrong with our daughter?” my mother asked anxiously. “We did prenatal classical music, high-end sensory training, and early development classes. She’s clearly highly intelligent, so why hasn’t she spoken a single word to us?” After a battery of tests, the lead specialist turned to them. “Physically, she is in perfect health. Her neural pathways are fully developed, and her cognitive recognition is off the charts. The delay isn’t physical. It might be psychological.” I froze. Should I just speak now to prove I wasn’t broken? But the memory of my three sudden deaths flashed before my eyes, and I kept my jaw locked shut. After visiting three more specialists, my parents came to a terrifying conclusion: their daughter might have a developmental disorder. Grandmother Emily’s reaction was swift and merciless. “A Bradford heir cannot have a cognitive defect,” she declared coldly over Sunday brunch. My parents paced the floor of the drawing room in a panic. “Exactly. Most kids are babbling ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ by ten months. What is wrong with our Charlotte?” “Next week is her first birthday gala,” my father groaned, rubbing his temples. “We invited the elite of New York. We were planning to show her off, to prove we’ve bred the perfect successor. If she’s… quiet, what do we tell them?” “Is she really defective? Do we just keep waiting?” Their anxiety was palpable, and my heart hammered against my ribs. I had completely forgotten about the first-birthday gala. My father had invited every billionaire, politician, and socialite in the city. He wanted to use me as his ultimate trophy. Grandmother Emily set down her porcelain teacup with a sharp clink, delivering her final ultimatum. “The gala is her final test. If Charlotte does not speak by then, we will assume she is unfit for the succession. A family of our stature requires a healthy, capable heir. If she is compromised, we will quietly make arrangements to place her in a specialized facility upstate, and you two can start focusing on a second child.” 4 The cold familiarity of her words sent a violent shiver down my spine. A lump formed in my throat, and I had to fight back the urge to cry. The gala was going to be a massive, high-pressure event, and my father’s pride was entirely on the line. If I remained mute, his embarrassment would turn to resentment. But if I spoke and called out to a stranger or a nanny to avoid choosing between them, Grandmother Emily would label me “unattached” and exile me anyway. I was cornered. Seeing my tiny face crumple with distress, my parents exchanged a softened look. Even in their shallow vanity, they still cared for me in their own way. They tried to throw me a lifeline. “Maybe the excitement of the gala will spark something,” my mother murmured, pulling me into her arms. “With everyone there, if we coax her gently, she might just open up.” “Yes, exactly,” my father agreed quickly, looking at Emily. “Mother, let’s not rush to conclusions. Let’s see how she handles the crowd at the gala.” Seeing them defend me, a tiny warmth bloomed in my chest. At least this time, they were standing by me. Their vanity and competitive natures were frustrating, but I could work with that. It was a language I understood. Once we were back in the nursery, I listened to the muffled sound of their worried voices through the heavy mahogany door, and I began to plan. If I absolutely couldn’t say “Mama” or “Dada”… But I could perform some other, mind-blowing cognitive feat… would that satisfy them? If I could do something so extraordinary that it made them swell with pride, proving beyond a doubt that I was a genius, they wouldn’t dare discard me. A high-risk, high-reward idea slowly took shape in my toddler brain. Starting that very night, the moment the house grew quiet and the nanny drifted off to sleep, I slipped out of my crib. I crawled over to my interactive learning tablet, tapping away at the early-literacy programs. My parents saw the activity on the baby monitor, but they assumed I was just a restless toddler playing with a screen, thinking nothing of it. After a grueling week of midnight training, the day of the first-birthday gala arrived. The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was packed with the city’s elite, all carrying boxes wrapped in silk and velvet. I was dressed from head to toe in custom Chanel, cradled in my parents’ arms as we made the rounds, collecting trust-fund checks and diamond rattles. Naturally, the only question on anyone’s lips was: “Has she spoken yet? Is she a daddy’s girl or a mommy’s girl?” Every time, my parents laughed nervously, brushing the questions off with vague excuses. Finally, before the main course was served, my parents carried me up to the stage microphone. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. “Alright, everyone,” my father said into the mic, trying to sound jovial despite his stiff posture. “We know there’s been a lot of speculation about our little Charlotte’s first word.” One of my father’s business rivals yelled from the front table, “She looks just like you, Thomas! Ten grand says she says ‘Dada’!” My mother’s high-society friends chimed in instantly. “Double that! She’s a mommy’s girl through and through. It’s going to be ‘Mama’!” “I’ll bet my new Porsche it’s ‘Dada’! The girl knows who signs the checks!” The room erupted into laughter and playful bidding. Sensing the rising stakes, my father leaned down, his whisper desperate in my ear. “Charlotte, please. Just say ‘Dada.’ Don’t let me down in front of these people.” My mother squeezed my hand, her eyes pleading. “Charlotte, I carried you for nine months. Don’t be ungrateful. Say ‘Mama’ first…” Their suffocating expectations pressed in on me from both sides. And at the VIP table, Grandmother Emily sat like an ice queen, her sharp eyes dissecting my every micro-expression. The memories of my three past lives flashed before my eyes in vivid, terrifying detail. I had fought so hard to secure this life of luxury. I refused to let it end in a cold, sterile institution or a forgotten boarding school. I didn’t know if my gamble would pay off. But as the silence stretched and a thousand eyes locked onto me, I had no choice but to leap. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I opened my mouth…

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497710”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the afternoon of my college move-in day, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from my mother. Only, it wasn’t the mother I knew. It was her—eighteen years in the past. She was gently caressing her slightly rounded stomach, her eyes bright and filled with a luminous, teary hope. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, looking at the screen as if she could see right through time. “Your father took me to the clinic today. The doctor says everything looks perfect. Soon, the three of us will finally be together.” She looked at me, her eyes tracing my face with longing. “Tell me, sweetheart. In the future, do you follow in my footsteps and dance? Or did you inherit your father’s business mind?” A bitter, dry laugh caught in my throat. I slowly tilted the camera downward. The canary-yellow delivery vest felt stiff and smelled faintly of stale fries and cold grease. My name tag hung crookedly over my chest, a cheap piece of plastic declaring my state-assigned role. DoorDash Runner #9: Isabel. When I tilted the camera back up, meeting her bewildered, frozen gaze, my voice was as flat and cold as a stagnant pond. “I’m sorry, Mom. You didn’t guess right on either.” “I was just kicked out of the house. Ruby tore up my college acceptance letter.” “And eighteen years from now, you’re still lying in a hospital bed, waiting for me to scrape together enough cash to cover your medical bills.” My throat tightened, a sob threatening to break through. “Mom,” I choked out, “if you can hear me… please. Abort this pregnancy. Divorce him. Leave, and never look back.” 1 My mother forced a fragile, trembling smile. “Izzy, what kind of joke is that?” she chuckled softly, though her hand shook. “Your father and I are engaged. Why on earth would he marry Ruby?” She raised her hand, showing off the massive, glittering diamond ring on her finger. “Look. This is the family heirloom. He placed it on my finger himself.” “He told me that the day you are born, he’s going to give me the grand wedding of my dreams.” I had seen that ring. Countless times. Every time my mother’s depressive episodes took hold, she would clutch that ring, white-knuckled, until the storm in her mind passed. But the tragedy was that this ring—the one she cherished like her very soul—would eventually be ripped from her hand and slipped onto Ruby’s finger. And the marriage certificate she spent eighteen years begging for? It was signed the very day after I was born. While my mother was recovering in her hospital bed, my father and Ruby made a detour to City Hall on their way to visit her. They got married. When my mother found out and screamed herself hoarse, demanding to know why, his response was a dismissive, casual shrug. “Ruby is the adopted daughter,” he’d said. “Without this marriage, high society will always look down on her. To the world, you’re still my real partner, and our child is still the heir to the family fortune. It’s just a piece of paper, Margot. Why make such a fuss?” I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I flipped the camera, carrying a pastry box up the steps of the old family estate. I knocked on the heavy oak door. “Delivery for unit 4B. Delivery under the name Charles.” Through my earbuds, my mother let out a small, startled gasp, her voice laced with sudden joy. “That’s my mother’s old house! The estate she left me as a dowry! Charles promised me he’d take care of it… I can’t believe it’s still standing, looking exactly the same eighteen years later!” The door clicked open, and her joyful words died in her throat. My father stood there. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered in his eyes. “Izzy? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at your dorm registration?” A soft, petulant voice drifted from behind him. Ruby appeared, her lower lip trembling with practiced vulnerability. “Charles, don’t blame her. It’s my fault. This morning, Izzy called me a homewrecker and knocked over the cake you bought me. I only scolded her a little, but she got so angry she ran away to do… whatever this is.” A shadow of disgust crossed my father’s face. He didn’t even bother to ask for my side of the story. “Well, maybe some hard labor will cure her of that attitude,” he muttered coldly. “She’s starting to sound just like her hysterical mother. Bring the cake in and put it on the table.” I kept my head down and followed them inside. On the screen, the camera captured the room. The exquisite, hand-carved marble desk—the one my grandmother had passed down to my mother—had been painted a gaudy pink and converted into a plush bed for Ruby’s toy poodle. In my ear, my mother’s voice trembled with a ragged, weeping breath. “How… how could he? Charles promised me he would honor my mother’s memory… How could he let her treat my inheritance like garbage?” But I felt nothing. I was entirely numb. On their first wedding anniversary, during one of my mother’s severe depressive episodes, she had pushed Ruby in a fit of panic. Ruby fell, suffered a miscarriage, and was told she could never have children again. From that day on, my mother was labeled a criminal. And on every subsequent anniversary, Charles would bring Ruby to this very house, using the desk my grandmother loved to indulge their desires, leaving their marks all over it. Afterward, he would force my mother to kneel, weeping, and scrub the wood clean. He systematically broke her, piece by piece, forcing her to watch exactly how much he adored another woman. I placed the cake box down and spoke in a flat, customer-service drone. “Please remember to leave a five-star review on the app. Have a good day.” As I turned to leave, the ragged sobbing in my ear grew louder, shaking the tiny speaker. “Why would Charles do this? He loved me. When we were younger and those thugs cornered me, he took a knife for me. He nearly lost a kidney protecting me!” “Izzy, please tell me this is a joke. It’s a prank, right? It has to be!” I let out a hollow, bitter smile. So that was where his scar came from. He had saved her. No wonder that very scar later became his deepest source of resentment. My throat felt dry, choked with unshed tears. I didn’t know what to say. Footsteps echoed behind me. My father caught up to me in the hallway, pulling a thin stack of bills from his leather wallet. He thrust them toward me, his expression dark. “That’s enough of this little drama. If you need pocket money, just ask. Don’t play the martyr like your mother. It’s pathetic.” I reached out and took only the smallest bill—a ten-dollar bill—and offered him a polite, hollow nod. “Thank you for the tip. I’ll take the trash out on my way. Enjoy your evening.” His jaw clenched, irritation flaring in his eyes. “Did she teach you that passive-aggressive tone, too? Eighteen years, and her tricks are still as cheap as ever.” “I’m warning you one last time. As long as you don’t touch Ruby, I don’t care what you do. But if you dare hurt her again, I won’t hesitate to ruin you.” With that parting threat, he slammed the door. On my phone screen, my mother’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed with utter disbelief. “How… how did he become this monster?” “But if it’s true… if things really get this bad… why didn’t I take you and leave?” “I’m a principal ballerina! I have my own career, my own money! Why would I stay and endure this torture?” My silence slowly drained the last embers of hope from her face. The terrible truth began to dawn on her. “So… eighteen years from now… I don’t dance anymore, do I?” Before I could answer, my phone vibrated, interrupting our call with an incoming line. It was the hospital nurse, her voice clipped and impatient. “Isabel? Your mother’s medical bill is still short three hundred dollars. Today is the absolute deadline. How much longer before you get here?” My voice was barely a whisper. “I have the money. I’m on my way.” Hanging up, I looked back at the video call, staring deep into the eyes of the young mother on the screen. “Come,” I said softly. “Let me show you who you are in eighteen years.” I walked down the sterile hospital corridor and stopped outside room 302. I angled my phone camera through the small glass pane of the door. The woman inside sat in a wheelchair. She was so emaciated her hospital gown practically swallowed her. Her face was hollow, devoid of life. When the draft from the AC blew, the right pant leg of her pajamas fluttered, completely empty. In my ear, my mother’s voice was a terrified shiver. “Izzy… is that… me? Her right leg…” “It’s gone,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Charles had someone break it.” My mother gasped, a sound of pure agony. “He knew… he knew dancing was my entire life. Why would he do that? What happened?” I smiled, the taste of salt on my lips. “Because Ruby claimed you put sewing needles in her ballet slippers. Charles didn’t even bother to check. He just took a lead pipe to your knee.” Silence stretched across the eighteen-year gap. It was absurd. On a single, unverified accusation, he had shattered her legs, and along with them, her dream of ever standing on a stage again. I pushed the heavy door open and entered the room. The moment the woman in the wheelchair saw me, her eyes clouded with sudden, manic rage. She grabbed a ceramic vase from the bedside table and hurled it at my head. I ducked, but the vase shattered against the doorframe, a stray shard slicing a clean line across my cheek. My mother—the eighteen-years-older version—began to scream at me, her voice cracked and hysterical. “Charles! You bastard! Aren’t you supposed to be in bed with that whore? Why are you here to mock me? Get out! Get out!” I calmly wiped the bead of blood from my cheek, speaking softly to the terrified young woman still on my phone screen. “I look too much like him. Whenever she has an episode, she mistakes me for my father.” “Now do you see? It’s not that you didn’t want to take me and leave. It’s that you were too sick. You couldn’t.” On the screen, my young mother bit her lip until it bled. “When… when did it start? The sickness?” I thought back. “The night you found out you were pregnant with me. You came home to surprise him and caught them together. The shock triggered your first psychotic break.” “After that, whenever Charles wanted to spend the night with Ruby without being disturbed, he’d have you committed to the psychiatric ward for a few days.” Looking at her devastated face, I asked gently, “Do you want to talk to her?” She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “No. There’s no point.” “Is there really nothing we can do? Are we completely helpless?” In the heavy, suffocating silence of the hospital room, I whispered the only truth left to us. “For us, yes. It’s too late. But for you… you still have a choice. Abort the baby. Pack your bags. Leave tonight, and never let him find you.” “Break it off cleanly, and never look back.” She fell silent. Suddenly, through the speaker, I heard a man’s voice calling out from eighteen years ago—my father’s voice, warm and full of false tenderness. “Margot? Who are you talking to? You’ve been on the phone forever.” The line went dead. I tucked my phone away and firmly but gently forced the woman in the wheelchair to take her medication. As the sedatives took hold, the manic red left her eyes. She looked at my bleeding cheek, her face crumpling with guilt. “Izzy… I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you again?” I shook my head. “It’s okay, Mom.” She reached into her thin hospital gown, pulling out a faded cloth pouch and stuffing it into my hands with desperate urgency. “This is all the money I’ve managed to hide over the years. Take it. Go to college. Don’t worry about me anymore!” Then, her eyes fell on my bright yellow delivery vest, and she froze. “Izzy… why are you wearing that? Weren’t you supposed to register at the dorms today?” My heart ached, but I forced a reassuring smile and lied. “My classes don’t start for another two weeks, Mom. I’m just doing some food delivery to earn extra pocket money.” I pushed the pouch back into her hands. “I have money. And you’re my mother. Even if I leave, I’m taking you with me.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re such a good girl, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I ruined your life.” “If there is a next life, promise me you’ll be born to a better mother. Don’t choose someone like me.” I frowned, cutting her off gently. “Mom, stop talking like that. I’m going to the cafeteria to get us some dinner. Stay here and be good, okay?” She nodded, looking small in her bed. But as I walked back down the hall with a tray of food, I ran straight into Ruby. She was resting her hand on her flat stomach, a smug, venomous smile on her lips. “Izzy. I have wonderful news. You’re going to have a little brother.” “Charles hasn’t stopped trying for eighteen years, and all those fertility treatments finally paid off.” I stared at her coldly. “Congratulations. Now get out of my way, I need to feed my mother.” Ruby covered her mouth, letting out a soft, mocking laugh. “Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that anymore.” My chest tightened. She let out a cruel, airy giggle. “Your mother is in the ICU right now. I don’t think she has much of an appetite.” The plastic tray slipped from my hands, shattering on the tile floor. I bolted toward the emergency wing. Just as I arrived, the double doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, removing his surgical mask. He offered me a grim, apologetic bow. “Isabel… I’m so sorry. The blunt force trauma to her skull was too severe. We did everything we could.” My world shattered into a thousand silent pieces. In a blind, suffocating rage, I lunged forward, grabbing Ruby by her collar and screaming, “What did you do to her?!” She didn’t even flinch. She just smiled, her voice dripping with artificial innocence. “I only told her the truth, Izzy. I told her that I tore up your college acceptance letter and took all your money. I told her you had to drop out of school to pay her bills. She got so hysterical she threw herself headfirst against the concrete wall.” My fingers trembled, every fiber of my being wanting to strangle the life out of her. “Isabel! Stop it right now!” A heavy hand ripped me away. My father stood there, shielding Ruby, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is is how Margot raised you? To assault your elders? To have absolutely no respect?” “If I had known you’d turn out like this, I would have never let her give birth to you.” His words were a jagged blade, twisting into the last remaining pieces of my heart. This face—the face my mother had loved more than her own life—was utterly monstrous. I let out a wet, hollow laugh, tears burning my eyes. “Dad… she killed her…” “Oh, Charles, my stomach… it hurts so much. I think I’m losing the baby!” Ruby gasped, collapsing into his arms. Panic seized my father. He scooped her up in his arms, running down the hall without looking back, leaving me alone with my mother’s ghost. A nurse stepped up beside me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Isabel… right before your mother lost consciousness, she asked me to give you a message.” “She said she didn’t want to be a burden to you anymore. She hid a life insurance policy in the second drawer of her bedside table. She wants you to take the payout and go to college.” I wheeled my mother’s sheet-covered body toward the morgue, sobbing uncontrollably. Suddenly, my phone rang. On the screen, the eighteen-year-old version of my mother was pale, her face stripped of all color, but her jaw was set with fierce determination. “Izzy, you were right. Charles told me he had to work late tonight.” “I was planning to surprise him with some homemade soup. That must have been how I caught them in your timeline.” “I threw the soup out. I’m at the airport. My flight to Austin, Texas leaves in thirty minutes.” I wiped my tears, a broken, hysterical laugh escaping my throat. “That’s wonderful, Mom! You’re free! You’re finally free!” But as she looked at me, she noticed the white sheet draped over the gurney behind me. Her eyes widened in horror. “Izzy… what is that?” I told her the truth. I told her everything. Her voice shook with a terrible, violent grief. “Sweetheart, don’t worry. I swear to you, I will never let that happen again.” Suddenly, the gurney was blocked. A sharp, stinging slap cracked across my face, sending me stumbling. I looked up to see my father, his face contorted in absolute rage. “Isabel, did your mother tell you to poison the cake? Is that why Ruby is having an allergic reaction?” “Ruby is hemorrhaging. Call your mother right now. We need her for a blood transfusion.” I cupped my burning cheek, staring at him. With all the strength I had left, I pushed the gurney directly into his chest. “Here,” I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. “Here she is. Take her.” My father’s scowl deepened, his teeth grinding together. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Your mother was just spotted out with another man, and now you’re playing dead?” He pulled out his phone, shoving a social media post in my face. On the screen, a photo from today showed my mother smiling radiantly, snuggled into the arms of a handsome man. The caption read: Snuck out of the psych ward. Finally realized what real happiness feels like. In my earbud, my mother’s voice was sharp with panic. “My body is right there! How could I post that? That’s Ruby’s doing. She must have used AI to fake that photo!” “Izzy, pull back the sheet! Show him! Show him my body!” I let out a tired, cynical laugh. It was always the same tricks. Ruby had used them for eighteen years. Whenever my mother went to therapy, Ruby rumored she was sleeping with her therapist. When my mother got into a car accident, Ruby claimed she was too busy staring at a handsome pedestrian to watch the road. And Charles believed every single lie. He was the one who personally signed the papers to put her on the electroshock table. “You like men so much? Let’s see if a few hundred volts can cure your cravings,” he had sneered. My mother had screamed all night. And I had sat outside the steel door, listening to every single volt tear through her brain. My chest burned with the memory of that agonizing pain. Charles stood before me, laughing coldly. “What’s the matter? Forgot to coordinate your stories? Or did Margot forget to give you your script?” In my ear, my young mother was crying out. “Izzy, pull the sheet down! No matter how much he hates me, he won’t be able to deny the truth when he sees me!” She was still so young. She still held onto a shred of naive hope that there was a shred of humanity left in him. I sighed and pulled the white sheet down. Charles froze. Every muscle in his body turned to stone. “Margot?” His hand trembled, his fingers reaching out to touch her cold, grey cheek. Suddenly, a hand yanked at his sleeve. Ruby was sitting in a wheelchair, pushed by a nurse. Her face was pale, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Charles… the nurse told me a few days ago that Margot ordered a hyper-realistic silicone doll of her own corpse. I didn’t believe it, but she actually did it… just to get out of saving me.” “Even if she hates me, she didn’t have to curse herself like this…” “Charles, let her go. My baby and I don’t need her blood. I’d rather buy a coffin and bury us both.” Ruby sobbed, trying to turn the wheelchair away, but Charles grabbed her. His eyes turned incredibly cold as he looked back at me. “I didn’t think your mother could stoop this low. If she won’t give her blood, then you will.” “She claims to love you so much. Let’s see how long she can hide while her daughter bleeds for us.” He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the clinic room. In my ear, my young mother’s screams were deafening. “No! Charles, don’t touch my daughter! Let her go!” But he didn’t hear her. He pinned me to the chair, and the cold needle slid into my vein. He took my blood and rushed back to Ruby. I collapsed onto the cold, tiled floor, draining of strength. In my ear, my mother was weeping, her heart breaking over the static of eighteen years. A generic airport announcement crackled in the background of her call. “Final boarding call for Flight 442 to Austin. All remaining passengers please proceed to gate 12 immediately.” As my vision began to fade into black, a small, genuine smile touched my lips. “Congratulations, Mom,” I whispered. “You’re finally free.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497709”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel