When that forged DNA report was slid across the mahogany desk toward me, the world as I knew it didn’t just crack—it vaporized. In the high-society circles of Manhattan, I had always been the girl at the center of the solar system, bathed in the warmth of every spotlight. Overnight, I became a ghost in my own home, a “charity case” living under the roof of the powerful Mercer family. To avoid being cast out into the cold, I learned the art of the grovel. When my sister, Rebecca, eyed my designer vintage dresses, I handed them over with a practiced, hollow smile. When she turned my twenty-first birthday gala into a showcase for her own “miraculous return,” I swallowed the bile in my throat and told her it was fine. The most absurd moment came when she confessed, blushing like a debutante, that she had feelings for Xander—the man who was supposed to be mine. I simply nodded, numb to the marrow. But the very next day, Xander—the man who had personally overseen the fabrication of that blood report—pinned me against the wall in a darkened hallway. His eyes were a frantic, bloodshot mess as he gripped my shoulders, asking if I’d lost my mind. He hissed at me, asking if blood was really that important—if I was truly willing to hand him over to someone else just because of a piece of paper. I looked at his crumbling composure and felt a sudden, sharp burst of irony. He was such a gifted actor that he’d managed to con even himself. … When the news broke that I wasn’t the biological daughter of the Mercers, my first instinct was to pack. I wanted to disappear before the pity could set in. But my parents—the people I’d called Mom and Dad for two decades—clutched my hands, their eyes shimmering with tears. “The Mercer family can handle two daughters, Claire,” Dad said. “Blood might be a lie,” Mom whispered, “but twenty years of memories are real.” Then came Rebecca. She stood in my bedroom doorway, clutching a tattered suitcase, her shoulders trembling with the delicacy of a wounded bird. “Mom, Dad… I don’t really need the master suite,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “It’s just… I spent so many years in that damp basement with my foster family. The doctors said I need more sunlight for my lungs.” She cast a fleeting, “innocent” look at me. “If Claire doesn’t move out of this room, I’ll just stay in the guest wing. I wouldn’t want people saying the Mercers are mistreating their long-lost daughter in favor of a foster child.” My parents’ hearts broke instantly. “Rebecca, sweetheart, you’re so thoughtful,” Mom cooed, already reaching for her phone to call the movers. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you have the brightest room in the house. You’ll never have to see a shadow again.” I stood there, head bowed, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t need to look up to feel the shift in the air. My parents weren’t looking at me with love anymore. They were looking at me like a squatter—a greedy tenant who refused to vacate a property that didn’t belong to her. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, thinly veiled disappointment. Rebecca’s voice, now sharp with a performative sob, jerked me back to the present. “You’ve had ten years of luxury that belonged to me,” she cried, pointing at the floor. “And now you’ve destroyed our only family portrait? You’re truly malicious, Claire.” I looked down at the shattered glass of the framed photo on the rug. I didn’t even try to defend myself. In the photo, Rebecca was wearing the silk gown Xander had bought for me. She was smiling, flanked by my brothers and parents, all of them leaning into her. It was a picture-perfect image of a family that had finally found its missing piece. My brother Logan leaned against the doorframe, a sneer curling his lip. “I told you guys. Even if she’s just the ‘help’ now, we should have invited her for the photo. Her ego is too small to handle Rebecca being the star. Look at this mess. She’s pathetic.” Mom and Dad frowned, the exhaustion clear on their faces. “Forget it,” Dad sighed. “It’s just a photo. We’ll take another one. Claire probably didn’t mean it. Let’s not make a scene and give the neighbors something to gossip about.” Hearing them casually pin the blame on me without a single question, I felt a strange, icy calm settle over me. “Since I’m just the charity case now,” I said, my voice steady, “and since I’m clearly so ‘malicious,’ I think it’s best if I move out. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” My oldest brother, Tyler, stepped in front of the door. “Claire, don’t be dramatic. You know that’s not what we meant.” Logan barked a laugh, crossing his arms. “Without the Mercer name, you’re a nobody. Where are you going to go? The streets? Don’t come crawling back here crying when you realize how cold the world is.” The old Claire would have slammed the door and hidden in the attic, waiting for Logan to feel guilty enough to call me and beg for forgiveness. Instead, I walked back into my room and started putting my things into a single duffel bag. Rebecca leaned against the wall, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Don’t pretend you’re leaving while secretly tucking Mercer diamonds into your socks, you little parasite.” I stopped. I looked around the room—the room that was no longer mine. I took off my watch, my earrings, and the gold necklace with my initials. I laid them all on the desk. Then, I walked out. “Apologize now,” Logan called out, his voice tinged with genuine annoyance, “and I might let you stay in the maid’s quarters. Don’t be ungrateful.” I didn’t look back. I used the little cash I’d earned from my campus job to buy a plain sweatshirt from the housekeeper. Holding nothing but my ID and my pride, I walked out of the Mercer estate. Outside, the sky opened up. A classic East Coast downpour. I had no home. The butler stood at the gate with an umbrella, his expression pained. “It’s going to get worse, Miss Claire. Please, take the umbrella. Don’t get sick.” I didn’t take it. I pulled my hood up and ran into the rain. Behind me, I heard the sound of heavy objects hitting the pavement. I turned back one last time. The moving crew was throwing my things—my books, my old trophies, my childhood stuffed animals—directly into the industrial trash bin out front. Rebecca was standing on the porch, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips as she watched the rain soak my life. “I hate second-hand things,” she shouted over the wind. “Clear out the trash!” She hated second-hand things, yet she stole my clothes, stole my parents’ affection, and was currently busy dismantling the life of the man I loved. I used my last few hundred dollars to rent a cramped, drafty studio in a crumbling building in Queens. That night, as I lay on a thin mattress, I finally drifted off, only to be pulled into a memory. I saw Xander, my parents, and my brothers sitting in the library. “How long are we going to keep the truth from her?” Tyler’s voice was low, troubled. Xander frowned, swirling a glass of scotch. “Claire is too spoiled, too entitled. Let’s wait until she’s properly humbled—until she’s ‘obedient.’ Then we can tell her the report was a fake.” Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, and I jolted awake. Rain was leaking through the window frame. Thunder shook the floorboards. In the past, I was terrified of storms. I used to run into my mother’s room and crawl into her bed. Now, I had no mother. Strangely, the thunder didn’t seem so loud anymore. Without the Mercer trust fund, I couldn’t afford the tuition at my elite private academy. The Monday after I left, I went straight to the principal’s office to withdraw. The principal, a kind woman who had known me since I was a child, shook her head. “Claire, with your GPA, you’re a lock for a full academic scholarship. There are stipends for living expenses too. Don’t throw your future away over a family spat.” Before I could answer, Rebecca’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Her ‘GPA’ was bought and paid for by Mercer donations,” she sneered, walking in with a flock of girls who used to be my best friends. They kept their heads down, refusing to meet my eyes. “She says she doesn’t want our money,” Rebecca continued, “yet here she is, trying to stay in a school our father built. How shameless can a foster girl be?” I looked at Rebecca, then at the girls behind her. I felt nothing but a dull pity. “I got into this school on my own merits, Rebecca. And I never needed a tutor to beat your scores.” Xander stepped into the room then, his brow furrowed in that patronizing way he had. “Claire, stop this. Finals are weeks away. Don’t be reckless.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Hamiltons—my family—will sponsor you. We’ll pay for your senior year and your Ivy League tuition. Just stop acting like a child.” I looked at Xander and realized I was looking at a stranger. I took a breath and shook my head. “The transfer is final.” “You promised we’d go to Columbia together,” Xander hissed, grabbing my wrist. His face was pale, desperate. “You’re breaking our pact.” I looked down at his hand on my skin until he let go. “The girl who made that pact was the Mercer heiress,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t exist anymore.” Xander froze, the color draining from his face. I didn’t understand him. When Rebecca wanted the dress he’d bought for my birthday, I had held onto the fabric, begging him to take my side. He had looked at me with cold indifference and said, “I bought that for the daughter of the Mercer family. Give it to Rebecca.” And yet here he was, acting like the heartbroken lover. For years, I had played the part of the perfect, high-achieving daughter to give them status. I had earned my keep ten times over. I gripped my transfer papers and walked out of the school. I owed them nothing. As I passed Rebecca, I saw the raw hatred in her eyes. I truly didn’t get it. My parents had told me since I was a kid that I had an older sister who went missing. I spent my childhood obsessed with her. I looked through old police files, I asked the neighbors, I prayed for her return. When she finally came home, I was the one who stayed by her side. Her foster parents had been monsters, and I wanted to be her shield. I shared everything with her. When boys mocked her for her “low-class” accent, I was the one who got suspended for fighting them. I introduced her to my world. And yet, Rebecca could accept everyone—the parents who lost her, the brothers who forgot her—but she couldn’t accept me. She eventually found new friends and started avoiding me. One night, she didn’t come home. I went looking for her and found her in an alley, surrounded by three drunks. She was shaking. I stepped in front of her, telling her to run while I held them off. She didn’t look back. She didn’t call for help. She just ran. If it hadn’t been for a passing patrol car, I wouldn’t have made it home. When I finally got back, my parents were waiting. Not with hugs, but with accusations. “How could you be so cruel?” Mom screamed. “You lured Rebecca into that neighborhood just to scare her? You can’t stand that she’s the real daughter, can you?” From that night on, we were enemies. On my walk home to the studio, I felt a familiar prickle on the back of my neck. Footsteps. I spun around. The streetlamp cast long, flickering shadows, but the sidewalk was empty. I sprinted the rest of the way and locked my door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’d left my phone at the estate, but even if I had it, there was no one left to call. Every night, the knocking started. A heavy, rhythmic thudding on my door. I would huddle in the corner with a box cutter, staring at the wood until the sun came up and the knocking stopped. I fell into a grueling routine: study at the public library at 6 AM, work a double shift at a diner, and walk home through the shadows, every nerve ending on fire. Finally, I used my tips to buy a burner phone. I was ready to record the stalker, to get proof for the police. But when I turned the corner of my building, I ran straight into a chest. Xander. He didn’t even look embarrassed. “Claire, I’m just worried about you. I’ve been watching over you.” A wave of exhaustion crashed over me. I started to laugh. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I just wanted to sleep. Xander grabbed my hand, his voice trembling. “How can you be so heartless? You haven’t called me once. You’re my fiancée. You know you don’t have to live in this shithole. Just ask me for help.” I looked at him—at the expensive watch I’d given him, at his perfectly tailored coat. “I’m living like this, terrified every night, because of the ‘lesson’ you and my family decided to teach me,” I said. “And you think you’re the hero?” Xander’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “My birthday party is after finals. Claire… please. You have to come.” I didn’t answer. I had already been scouted by a prestigious biotech research fellowship in California. The moment finals were over, I was leaving New York. I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but his phone buzzed. Rebecca’s voice came through, frantic and shrill. “Xander? I was in a car accident. Please, I’m scared. Come get me.” Xander gave me one last, lingering look and ran for his car. The knocking stopped that night. I slept for twelve hours straight. Xander didn’t show up again. Time blurred into a haze of textbooks and coffee. Finals ended. My scores were perfect—higher than I’d ever achieved under the pressure of the Mercer name. I packed my one bag, took my burner phone, and boarded a Greyhound bus. As the skyline of Manhattan faded into the distance, I felt a strange lightness. My clothes were cheap, my pockets were nearly empty, but for the first time in my life, everything I carried belonged to me. Back in the city, Xander was obsessing over the decorations for his birthday gala. He kept touching a small velvet box in his pocket, his eyes darting toward the entrance of the ballroom. He had practiced his speech a thousand times. Today, he was going to tell Claire the truth. He was going to bring her home, restore her status as the Mercer heiress, and then he was going to get down on one knee. He imagined her face—the way she would light up when she realized it was all over. The room was full of the city’s elite. But the one person he was looking for never appeared. A friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. She’s probably just making an entrance. You know Claire—she loves the drama.” The Mercer family arrived. Xander scanned the group, but Claire wasn’t there. Rebecca approached him, and Xander’s hand tightened around the ring box. “Where’s your sister?” he demanded. Rebecca’s face soured. “That charity case? She’s not my sister. Stop trying to make her happen, Xander.” Xander’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. Rebecca leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. “She’s not coming. Since she left the house, she’s been ‘working’ to pay for her new lifestyle. I heard men are knocking on her door at all hours of the night. She’s busy, Xander. Probably busy with a client.” My parents froze. My brothers exchanged a look of pure horror. “All she had to do was apologize,” Tyler whispered, his voice cracking. “We would have given her everything back.” “When she crawls back,” Logan spat, “I’m going to make sure she never leaves the house again.” Xander felt a sick sensation in his gut. His assistant stepped forward, handing him a tablet. “Sir, you asked for the security footage from the Queens address.” Xander watched the screen. He saw a line of men—local thugs, hired loiterers—knocking on my door night after night. He saw me huddled in the window, clutching a knife. He felt a surge of cold fury. He was about to leave when the Mercer family butler burst into the hall. “Sir! Ma’am!” the old man gasped, holding a yellowed envelope. “I found this in the trash while they were clearing out Miss Claire’s room. It’s an original lab report from twenty years ago.” He handed it to my father. According to the DNA analysis, Claire Mercer was a 99.9% biological match to Thomas and Diane Mercer.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427407”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The Whitmans finally “reclaimed” me from the middle-of-nowhere three months ago. Since then, Tiffany has treated me like her personal recycling bin. This was the tenth time she’d shoved one of her rejected online dating prospects onto me. She literally tossed her phone into my lap, her face twisted in a look of pure elitist disgust. She called me a “hillbilly” and described the guy as some kind of “prehistoric bore.” “I’m not giving you my leftovers to be mean,” she said, her voice dripping with that fake, sisterly concern that actually felt like a slap. “It’s just… you’re so plain and clumsy. You’ll never survive a real social event. Consider this practice so you don’t embarrass Mom and Dad later.” I was about to beg her to stop, to tell her I was already drowning in the chores the house staff “forgot” to do, when the air in front of me suddenly shimmered. Floating text—scrolling comments, like a live stream feed—erupted in my vision. [God, the sister is such an idiot. That’s not a ‘prehistoric bore.’ That’s Old Money.] [Exactly. He was raised by the old guard. He’s formal, sure, but he’s got the looks, the heart, and a bank account that could buy the Whitmans ten times over.] [Wait until they realize that once he commits, he doesn’t just buy dinner. He buys zip codes. His family connections are the kind the New York elite would kill for.] [Forget being a ‘True Heiress.’ With him, she’d be the Queen.] I swallowed my refusal. I looked down at the phone, then back at my sister, and nodded obediently. “Thank you, Tiffany. I’ll… I’ll practice hard.” Fine. I didn’t want to be the “long-lost Whitman daughter” anymore. I wanted to be the one who owned the building they lived in. … When Tiffany dropped the phone into my arms, the screen was still glowing. It was the latest folding model, a piece of tech so sleek it made my old hand-me-down—which took three minutes just to load a text—look like a literal brick. In the past, every time she dumped a guy on me, I’d have to memorize her passwords, log into my own glitchy device, and wait for the messages to sync. By the time I could reply, the conversation was usually dead. On the screen, a wall of unread messages hung in the chat box. The man’s profile picture was a simple, unpretentious shot of a mountain landscape. His tone was just as plain, almost awkwardly so. [If you come to the estate, what kind of car would you prefer to be picked up in?] [I usually ride my horses, and if I go into the city, I prefer the subway or my bike to avoid the noise. I’m not entirely sure what’s in the garage right now. I’ll ask the staff and get back to you.] Tiffany had clearly ghosted him after that. After hours of silence, he had sent a cautious follow-up: [Are you perhaps hesitant about meeting me?] I didn’t reply immediately. Instead, I scrolled up through their history. Tiffany had mentioned wanting “luxury pastries” once. The next day, he’d sent a box of homemade buttermilk biscuits. He wrote: [These are a family tradition. My grandmother’s recipe. They aren’t always available, but they’re my favorite. If you like them, I’ll just buy the bakery’s contract so you can have them whenever you want.] Further down, Tiffany said she wanted a birthday party on a yacht in the Hamptons. His response was grave: [Yacht parties are chaotic. Too much noise, too little security—especially with the crowds this time of year.] [If you’re open to it, we could have a quiet dinner at my family’s manor. I’d like to introduce you to my elders.] That must have been the dealbreaker for Tiffany. To her, this guy wasn’t just “basic”—he was cheap and pretentious. She probably thought “family manor” was code for a dilapidated farmhouse filled with senile relatives. She found him so repulsive she couldn’t even be bothered to block him. I took a deep breath and began to type. [I’m not hesitant. I was just overthinking what I should wear for my birthday.] He was silent for a moment. Then: [You’re spending it alone? You sound… unhappy. Is it because of the yacht party?] He seemed to sigh through the text, already compromising. [Fine. We can do the yacht. But you have to stay with me the whole time. Don’t drink anything that leaves your sight. Don’t take anything from strangers. And we leave by 11:00 PM…] I cut him off. [I don’t want a yacht party anymore.] I paused, then added: [And I don’t think I’m ready to meet your family yet.] Silence again. Two minutes passed. [Are you angry with me?] The live feed sparked in my eyes again. [OMG, what is she doing? He’s giving her an opening!] [She’s being too picky. He’s patient, but he’s not going to put up with a brat forever.] [His family raised him on dignity and respect. If she pushes too hard, he’ll just move on to the next arrangement!] My palms were sweating. I rephrased the thought in my head three times before hitting send. [What I mean is… I’ve decided against the yacht. I just want to see you. I want to spend my birthday with you.] [But about your family… I feel like it’s too soon. I’m just a girl living under her parents’ roof. I haven’t accomplished anything yet. I’m not sure I’m someone your elders would be proud of.] I bit my lip and kept typing. [Can it just be the two of us first? If… if you end up liking me, could you help me? Help me become someone who deserves to stand beside you? Someone your family would approve of?] [I promise I’ll put in two hundred percent of the effort.] I flipped the phone face-down on the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. To be honest, I was terrified. These words were the polar opposite of Tiffany’s shallow “socialite” persona. If the people in his life were as sharp as the comments suggested, they’d see through a fake in seconds. I needed to build my own foundation before I could face them. The phone buzzed. I flipped it over. A long block of text had appeared. It wasn’t a text message; it was a letter. Formal, sincere, and deeply moving. At the end, he wrote: [It brings me great joy to see you thinking of our future with such maturity. You have my word: I will do everything in my power to support your growth.] Below the message was a notification for a wire transfer: $50,000. The memo read: Birthday compensation. That evening, a new contact added me on Signal. He introduced himself as the Chief of Staff for a Mr. Winthrop. He was blunt and efficient, asking if I wanted a direct introduction to any Fortune 500 board or if I’d prefer a turn-key business registered in my name. I stared at the screen. The options were dazzling. They were “instant win” buttons. I typed back carefully: [Could I… could I just get an internship at his company?] The three dots of a reply appeared, then vanished. [An internship?] the assistant finally asked. The comments flared up. [Lol, she’s totally going for the ‘office romance’ trope. Trying to get close to the boss.] [I bet she just wants to show up in Louboutins and act like she owns the place. Typical.] [Giving her a shell company is easy. Putting her in the actual corporate structure as an intern? That’s a massive drain on resources.] [Exactly. Winthrop’s firm is all Ivy League PhDs. She’s going to be a disaster.] But I wasn’t. I had worked three jobs in college to pay for my Master’s degree. I wasn’t from a “Legacy” school, but I had clawed my way through every exam and every midnight shift. I was on the verge of a senior role at a top firm when the Whitmans “found” me and dragged me into their world of gilded cages. I was about to type out a long, professional justification when the assistant replied. [Understood.] [I will arrange a position for you to learn the fundamentals. Once you complete the basic rotation, you will move into a specialized leadership track. This includes executive coaching, linguistics, and high-level networking—the same curriculum Mr. Winthrop himself underwent.] I nearly fell off my chair. The same curriculum as the CEO? I finally learned his full name: Darian Winthrop. The name didn’t ring any bells locally. I Googled him and found… nothing. Not on Instagram, not in the tabloids. Finally, after digging through academic journals and international trade filings, I found him. He lived mostly abroad. He was the silent power behind Aether Group. He had no “reputation” in our local circles because quite frankly, no one here was important enough to be in his orbit. When I realized the sheer scale of Darian Winthrop’s net worth, I felt a wave of vertigo. The “family manor” was a historic estate in the English countryside with a private stable where a single horse cost more than the Whitman family business. If I could survive this internship, I wouldn’t need a dowry. I’d have a career that could sustain me for a lifetime. [She’s so calculated,] the comments hissed. [Searching his name like that? She’s a professional gold digger.] [Unlike Tiffany. Tiffany is real. She just follows her heart. If she doesn’t like a guy, she moves on. That’s class.] [Just wait. When he finds out she’s a fraud, he’s going to hunt for Tiffany and crush this little social climber.] I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. They were right. I was deceiving him. Eventually, the truth would come out, and when it did, the fallout would be catastrophic. The only thing I could do was make myself indispensable. If I made him happy enough—or became valuable enough—maybe there would be room for an explanation. I messaged Darian. [Did your assistant tell you? I’m so excited. I really want to work hard so I can stand by your side one day.] [Please don’t give me any special treatment. I want to start from the bottom.] [Thank you. You’re the best. I think I like you more than anyone else in the world.] I cringed the moment I hit send. That was the tone I’d used for the eighth guy Tiffany had passed me—a playboy who lived for flattery. Darian was the kind of man who wrote letters. Would he find me shallow? My heart raced as the reply came in: [Do whatever makes you happy.] [I like you best, too.] The contract arrived the next morning. Darian wanted me to start at the local branch to learn the ropes. He’d even bought a small apartment near the office so I wouldn’t have to commute. Tiffany walked by my room as I was packing. “Pearl? What are you doing?” I didn’t have time to hide the papers. She snatched them up. “The new guy got me a job. I’m looking at the contract.” Tiffany’s face darkened. “I told him I wanted to ‘visit’ his office once, and he said it would distract the staff. Now he’s giving you a job?” She scanned the pages, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “An internship?” “Three thousand a month? You’re actually going to slave away as a corporate mule for pocket change?” I looked down, saying nothing. But her hand stopped on a page bearing the Aether Group watermark. “How did he get you into Aether?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Do you know who they are? They’re old-world wealth. Untouchable.” My heart skipped. I quickly flipped the page back to the local address. “Their headquarters are in London or something. I’m just working at a satellite office. I don’t really understand the fine print… maybe they just outsource their filing to his company.” Tiffany looked at the contract again, then tossed it back onto the bed, satisfied. “Well, since I basically found you a job, I assume you won’t be needing an allowance from Mom and Dad anymore?” The first month I was back, they’d given me the same allowance as her. She’d been livid. Since the second month, I hadn’t seen a cent anyway. I nodded. “That’s fair. Thank you, Tiffany. I’d hate to just be a burden on the family.” She huffed a smug laugh and headed upstairs to tell our parents to cut me off financially. I closed the door, sat on my narrow bed, and texted Darian. [I start tomorrow. I’m so nervous. Can I ask you for advice? Is there anything I should watch out for?] I knew his personality—he loved to mentor, to provide structure. Thirty minutes later, an attachment appeared. Title: 1,000 Essential Protocols for Interns. Sub-title: (Pearl’s Private Edition). The next morning, I carried my suitcase downstairs. My parents were at the breakfast table. “Pearl? Where are you going?” my mother asked, barely looking up from her tablet. “The internship is far. I’m moving into the company housing.” My father’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Whitman. Working as a low-level clerk is beneath your station. It’s embarrassing.” I stood tall, keeping my voice neutral. “Tiffany’s suitors are from good families. If I just reject them, it looks bad on us. If I work for them, it keeps the relationship amicable. It’s better for the family name.” Tiffany swiped a piece of toast as she walked by. “She wasn’t raised with us, Dad. She doesn’t have our standards. If she wants to throw herself at a man I didn’t even want, let her. Let her see how hard the real world is. She’ll come crawling back once she realizes how good she has it here.” My parents went silent. They didn’t stop me. They just told me not to tell anyone I was a Whitman. The “apartment” Darian bought was actually a luxury penthouse. A housekeeper came daily to cook and clean. I was left entirely alone to focus. I was the first in the office and the last to leave. I studied every manual, practiced every protocol, and applied everything Darian taught me in real-time. I was running. Running because I was terrified that one day he’d realize I wasn’t the girl he started talking to. Terrified my parents would drag me back to marry some business associate. Terrified it would all vanish. Tiffany started a family group chat, “to check in on me.” I played along. Every day, I posted photos: a desk piled with files, the empty office at midnight, a plastic tray from the cafeteria. Tiffany would send voice notes of her laughing. “Truly, some people were just born to be beasts of burden.” “No matter how much money you throw at a peasant, they still want to work in the dirt.” The comments in my head were a roar. [She’s playing them! She never shows the penthouse or the private chef!] [What a manipulative snake. She’s letting them think she’s suffering while she lives like a princess.] I smiled, locked my phone, and went back to memorizing the quarterly projections. Whenever I struggled, I asked Darian. He loved it. He’d send pages of explanations, blending theory with decades of family wisdom. In return, I showered him with the kind of affection and praise he’d clearly never received in his stiff, formal life. A month later, I was promoted to a full-time associate. That afternoon, his assistant handed me my passport. “Mr. Winthrop has made the arrangements. You fly to the London headquarters tomorrow. The next phase of your training begins now.” My hands shook as I held the passport. I was finally going to see the world he lived in. But as I went back to the penthouse to pack, the comments went haywire. [Holy sh*t—Darian is back in the country!] [He spent all night comparing the data between Pearl and Tiffany! He knows!] [Finally! She’s dead meat.] [He’s going to find the real Tiffany and make sure this fraud never works in this industry again!] I froze. My knees went weak. I didn’t think. I just grabbed my bag, shoved my passport inside, and ran for the door. I’d pay him back. Every cent of the tuition, the rent, the food—I’d work my whole life to return it. But I couldn’t let him lock me in a room or hand me over to my parents. I threw open the door— And Darian was standing right there. He was much taller than his photos. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his collar buttoned to the top with obsessive precision. His features were sharp—a high brow, a straight nose, and lips pressed into a thin, stern line. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. My legs gave out. I stumbled back into the foyer, my voice a trembling wreck. “Mr… Mr. Winthrop.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427406”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night I was discharged from the hospital, Cherry shattered what was left of my soul. With a chilling casualness, she told me the name of the person who had kept me prisoner five years ago—the person who had delighted in my systematic destruction. It was Bianca. Bianca. My younger brother Jace’s wife. The news felt like a physical explosion inside my skull. My voice shook as I begged her to tell me she was joking, but Cherry just continued, her face a mask of terrifying serenity. She told me that five years ago, Jace had discovered he was sterile. His mother-in-law already despised him, looking for any excuse to throw him out of the prestigious family he’d married into. To protect Jace’s position as a pampered son-in-law, Cherry had struck a deal with him. She agreed to let me—his own brother—be used as his surrogate. But Bianca had always nursed a sick, twisted grudge against me. So, the three of them conspired. They locked me away, subjecting me to day after day of unimaginable torment, until they finally broke me—until they destroyed the very thing that made me a man. I fought back the bile rising in my throat, my lips trembling uncontrollably. I asked her why she was telling me this now. Cherry let out a long, theatrical sigh, as if she were finally dropping a heavy burden she’d been forced to carry. She said she was tired of the secrets. She told me the child she’d given me—Noah—was her way of paying back the debt. She even laughed, a small, dainty sound. “They say men soften up once they become fathers. I guess it’s true. You’re so much more… compliant lately. You’ve finally learned how to be good.” I forced the corners of my mouth to twitch into something resembling a smile. I didn’t say a word. She didn’t know. I wasn’t becoming “good.” I was becoming a ghost. And I had a secret of my own that I had never confessed to her. … The truth was a tidal wave, but even as I drowned, I caught the dissonance in her words. “The child you ‘owed’ me… what does that mean?” Cherry hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. She rubbed her neck, then decided to go for broke. “Before all of that happened… when I was pregnant with your first? I didn’t want it. I wasn’t ready to be tied down to you like that. So… I put some oil on the top of the stairs.” The world tilted. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. That baby—the one I had spent every night talking to through her skin, the one I had built a nursery for in my heart—wasn’t lost to a tragic accident. She had murdered him. He was seven months along. He was a person. Two more months and he would have seen the light of day. Instead, his own mother snuffed him out for her own convenience. My heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. I gasped for air, my lungs refusing to expand. Seeing my distress, Cherry grabbed my hand, pressing her lips to my knuckles with a sickening tenderness. “I know it hurts, Calvin. But we have Noah now. It’s the same thing.” I looked at the infant sleeping in the bassinet, tears blurring my vision. “It’s not the same.” Cherry’s brow furrowed. She dropped my hand, her voice turning sharp and cold. “How is it different? A child is a child. Just look at Noah as if that other baby came back to you. Problem solved.” “Besides,” she continued, her tone rising with indignation, “after the miscarriage, I saw how depressed you were. I dropped everything to nurse you back to health. I cooked every meal. I stayed by your side every second just to see you smile again… Calvin, I don’t owe you anything anymore!” A new child and a few home-cooked meals. That was her price for the soul-shredding agony of losing a son. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t. Cherry’s raised voice woke Noah. He began to wail. She immediately scooped him up, cooing to him with a softness I once found beautiful. When she’d first told me she was pregnant with Noah, she seemed even more thrilled than I was. She’d prepped the room months in advance; the closets were bursting with tiny clothes. She used to let me feel her belly, listening as I read stories to the bump. This child was bathed in a maternal love the first one never knew. She really did love Noah. But now, the more she loved him, the more my heart screamed. Because Noah wasn’t Cherry’s. He was Bianca’s—the woman who had kept me in the dark and broken my body. They had been lying to me from the very start. Cherry brought Noah over to me, gesturing for me to hold him. I looked at the child with bloodshot eyes, my arms remaining frozen at my sides. A flash of disgust crossed Cherry’s face. “And here I thought you’d finally learned your place. I see you’ve still got that temper.” “If you’re going to be like this, then forget the baptism party tomorrow. We can just head down to the courthouse and sign the divorce papers right now!” I stared at her, wanting to rip her chest open to see if there was a heart in there or just a block of ice. Five years ago, she’d threatened divorce too. It was right after I’d caught her in bed with Jace, our “adopted” brother. My world, which I had painstakingly tried to tape back together, shattered all over again. I had lost my mind. I’d attacked Jace, filming the aftermath, screaming that I’d send it to his mother-in-law. Cherry had ended my hysteria with a single, stinging slap. “I was just in a bad mood,” she’d said. “I drank too much. If you can’t handle it, then leave.” A bad mood. Back then, my greatest fear was her being unhappy. I was ashamed of my “unclean” body, ashamed of what had happened to me. I had knelt at her feet, sobbing, begging her not to leave. I had even started hitting myself, convinced that her cheating was my fault—that I wasn’t man enough to keep her satisfied. Cherry had pulled my spiraling body into her arms then. “Cal, stop! You’ve already lost one child. If you keep this up, you’re going to break yourself.” That was the reason she gave me to keep living. Now I realized she wasn’t worried about me. She just didn’t want her brother’s dream of being a “father” to die with me. Seeing my face go pale, Cherry assumed she had won again. The “divorce” threat always worked. “Cal,” she whispered. “Just be good, and we can be a happy family of three. You’re tired. Go to sleep. I’ll take care of the baby tonight.” That night, Noah cried four times in the next room. Cherry handled him alone. She didn’t come to me. I didn’t go to her. The next day was the party. I sat in my room, listening to the muffled voices of guests praising the “beautiful baby boy.” I felt nothing. The door clicked open. A soft, feminine voice drifted in. “Brother-in-law? Why are you hiding in here?” Jace walked in, leading five-year-old Benny by the hand. Benny was Bianca’s son. The moment he saw me, he sprinted over and threw his arms around my legs. “Uncle Cal! I missed you so much!” That face was a miniature of Bianca’s, but his eyes… his eyes were mine. The questions that had haunted me for years were suddenly answered in the curve of a child’s eyelid. My stomach turned. I shoved Benny away with a force that sent him sprawling. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” Benny hit the floor hard, looking up in shock. Jace, however, just smirked. In the past, whenever Jace saw Benny getting close to me, he’d turn passive-aggressive. Last Father’s Day, Benny had made me a card. Jace had flown into a rage, and to punish me, he’d kissed Cherry right in front of my face. “You try to steal my son, I’ll take your wife,” he’d hissed. I’d tried to tear him apart, but Cherry had held me back. “He’s just jealous because the kid likes you. It was just a kiss, Cal. Don’t be so dramatic.” I had responded by smashing every vase in the house. Jace found it hilarious. He realized that the more affection Benny showed me, the more “intimate” Cherry would get with him to “balance things out.” He loved watching me go insane. Jace didn’t even pick Benny up. He just looked at me. “What’s wrong, Cal? Benny loves you. He’s been begging to see you since you went to the hospital.” Just then, Cherry walked in holding Noah. She frowned at Jace. “I told you not to bring the boy in here.” Jace draped an arm around Cherry’s shoulder, his voice dripping with false innocence. “I just thought Cal might want to hold his son.” My blood ran cold. He knew. He knew Cherry had confessed everything. He brought Benny here specifically to twist the knife. I grabbed a glass vase from the nightstand and hurled it at them. Cherry pulled Jace out of the way, her eyes wide with fury. “Calvin! Have you lost your mind?” “Yes! I’m f***ing insane!” I lunged for Jace, my hands aiming for his throat. A second later, Cherry’s boot connected with my abdomen. It wasn’t a shove; it was a deliberate, powerful kick. She hit me right where my surgical wounds were still healing. The pain was blinding. I collapsed, cold sweat pouring down my face. “Cal…” Cherry’s expression flickered with a brief moment of regret. She started toward me. Suddenly, a shout came from the hallway. “Fire! There’s a fire in the kitchen!” Thick, oily smoke began billowing under the door. Cherry didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Jace with one hand and Noah with the other, and she ran. She didn’t look back. I lay on the floor, paralyzed by the pain in my gut, gasping for air that was rapidly turning to ash. Just as I felt my consciousness slipping, a figure burst through the smoke. “Calvin! Where are you?” I blinked, trying to focus. When the woman’s face came into view, my entire body locked up. Five years of suppressed agony came screaming back. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” I shrieked, thrashing wildly. But Bianca pinned my limbs down with a strength I remembered all too well. She held me just like she had in that basement. “Shut up! Do you want to die?” Being touched by her was worse than death. I fought, I screamed, and then I simply went limp, vomiting onto the floor. Once we were outside in the fresh air, Bianca—covered in scratches from my struggle—dumped me onto the grass with a snarl. The world went black. I woke up in a hospital bed. Cherry wasn’t there. She sent a text instead. I’m so sorry. Jace was right next to me and I had Noah… I couldn’t reach you. But as soon as I got out, I told Bianca to go back for you. I’m too busy with Noah and the insurance adjusters for the fire. Bianca will stay and look after you while you recover. “Cherry, are you serious?” I whispered into the phone when I finally got her to pick up. My voice was a broken rasp. “You know what she did to me…” Cherry’s voice was clipped, impatient. “Stop being so dramatic, Calvin. That was years ago. Get over it.” In the background, I heard Jace’s voice. “Cherry, honey, I think I twisted my ankle during the fire. Come help me to the bathroom?” The call disconnected. She wasn’t just taking care of the baby; she was nursing Jace. She had chosen to save him, chosen to care for him, and handed me over to my rapist. It was a knife that had been lodged in my back for five years, and she had just hammered it in to the hilt. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Bianca sat by my bed, looking smug. She poured a glass of water and held it out. I knocked it out of her hand. She didn’t even get angry as the water soaked her sleeve. “Don’t be like that, Cal. After all, we were ‘married’ for quite a while in that basement. Think of how many nights we shared.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My hands gripped the bedsheets so hard my knuckles turned white. Bianca’s eyes dropped to my mouth. “Still biting your lip when you’re scared? Some things never change.” She reached out to touch my face. I reacted like a wounded animal, grabbing a piece of the shattered water glass from the floor and slashing it across her forearm. “Get out!” I screamed. The glass sliced my own palm open, blood blooming across my hand, but I felt no pain. Bianca, startled, finally backed away and left the room. The day I was discharged, Cherry finally showed up. She brought a bouquet of camellias—my favorite. She took me to the bistro where we had our first date. She ordered the spicy tofu I’d craved during my “recovery” at home. On the drive back, she talked incessantly about Noah—how he’d smiled, how he’d even peed on her face and she thought it was the cutest thing in the world. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the blurred city. As we passed the courthouse, I spoke for the first time that day. “I want a divorce.” Cherry slammed on the brakes. “What?” She looked at me with genuine disbelief. The man who had been too broken to even consider leaving, even after the cheating, was finally saying the words. Her phone buzzed. A message from Bianca. Busy? Calvin gets out today. Want me to go pick him up? In an instant, Cherry’s eyes turned murderous. “Is that why? You’re leaving me for her?” “What?” “You spent a few days with her and now you’re hooked again? Is that it? Now that you know there’s a kid between you, you can’t wait to crawl back into her bed and relive the ‘glory days’ of being her toy? You pathetic slut.” The words hit me like a physical assault. I couldn’t believe this was how she saw me. “I didn’t—” Cherry unbuckled her seatbelt and lunged across the center console, pinning me against the door. “You like being forced, don’t you? Is that what you need?” She began ripping the buttons off my shirt, her teeth sinking into the skin of my neck. “Cherry, stop! Get off me!” I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and slapped her across the face. “Go back to your brother! Leave me alone!” Cherry’s eyes went red. She reached over, opened the passenger door, and shoved me out of the car. I tumbled onto the pavement. She sped off, leaving me disheveled and exposed, as pedestrians stopped to stare and whisper. I wrapped my arms around myself, shielding my torn clothes, and began the long walk home. The villa Cherry had bought for my “recovery” was gone, a charred skeleton of a house. That peaceful time we’d spent there—the illusion of a happy family—had gone up in smoke. When I entered our temporary apartment, I walked straight into Cherry and Jace wrapped around each other on the sofa. They didn’t even look embarrassed. I walked past them without a word. I was packing my bags when Jace strolled into the bedroom. He was wearing a silk robe that left nothing to the imagination, his skin covered in fresh marks. “You know, Calvin, my wife let you sleep in her bed for years. It’s only fair I get a turn with Cherry. I’m still the one getting the short end of the stick here.” I ignored him and kept folding my shirts. My silence irritated him. He stepped forward and grabbed a tiny, hand-knitted sweater from my suitcase—something I’d made for my first son. He dropped it on the floor and ground his heel into it. “The kid’s dead, Cal. What’s the point of keeping this trash?” I froze. Jace leaned in, a sadistic glint in his eyes. “You know, while Cherry was playing nursemaid to you, I told her I was having nightmares. I told her the ghost of that ‘accident’ baby was coming for me. Do you know what she did?” My heart stopped. “She took the box of ashes you kept on the mantel. She found a local occultist, someone who specializes in ‘binding’ spirits. And then she buried your brat in the dirt right next to the municipal landfill… to keep him from ‘haunting’ me.” Something inside me snapped. I lunged at Jace like a demon, clawing and tearing at him, my fingers locking around his throat. Cherry rushed in and ripped me off him, delivering a backhand that made my ears ring. She threw a set of papers onto the bed. Her signature was already there. “Sign them, Calvin. But think hard. Do you really think Bianca is going to marry you once I’m gone?” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. I didn’t even look at her as I signed my name. Cherry’s face contorted into something ugly. Just then, Noah started crying in the other room. She looked at me coldly. “I’m keeping custody. Since you’re leaving, you can give him his last feeding.” I stared at her. I had never “fed” Noah. Cherry had always insisted on the nanny doing it, or she did it herself. She used to tell me it was okay, that she knew I had “barriers” and we could take it slow. Now, she was using the baby as a weapon. “I’m not doing it.” I grabbed my suitcase, but she snatched my wrist. Her voice was ice. “You’re going to do it.” She shoved me onto the bed and, before I could react, she produced a pair of zip-ties, wrenching my hands behind my back and securing them. My shirt was torn open in the struggle. She picked up a bowl of mashed baby food. I thrashed, screaming. “Cherry! You monster! Let me go!” Bianca and Jace appeared in the doorway, watching the show. Cherry didn’t care. She pinched my jaw open and forced a spoonful of the cold, sticky mush into my mouth. She held my mouth shut, forcing me to chew. I couldn’t swallow; I couldn’t spit it out. I just felt the humiliation of the saliva-soaked mass in my mouth. Then, she pressed her fingers into my jaw, forcing me to lean over the crying infant. She tilted my head, forcing me to pass the food from my mouth into Noah’s. In that moment, the last shred of my dignity was ground into the dirt. “Why…” I sobbed, my eyes squeezed shut. “Why are you doing this to me?” Cherry leaned into my ear. “See, Cal? Noah stopped crying. He ate. Are you really going to walk away and never see him again?” Revolting. She was absolutely revolting. Eventually, she cut the ties. “Think about it. Can you really give up your son? Can you give up me?” She picked up the satisfied baby and walked out. Jace and Bianca followed, wearing matching grins. I lay on the bed like a broken doll. My tears had run dry. She asked if I could give them up. How could I not? I didn’t want her. I didn’t want the child. I changed my clothes, wiped my face, and left a document on the bedside table next to the divorce papers. Then I walked out of that house and didn’t look back. Cherry returned to the room an hour later, expecting to find a broken man ready to apologize. Instead, she found an empty room and a missing suitcase. He was actually gone. She began smashing things in a frenzy until she saw the paper I’d left behind. Her face went deathly pale. Her hands shook as she picked up the DNA test.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427405”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the deafening, alcohol-soaked roar of our ten-year college reunion, someone suddenly tossed out a question about the ones that got away. When the question landed on my husband, Steven, the noise in the room seemed to dial back. His gaze floated right past me, weightless, before finally anchoring on the woman sitting beside him: Judy. “It was Judy.” He didn’t shout it. His voice was quiet, but it dropped like a heavy stone into a perfectly still lake. The ripples hit everyone in the room. Judy clearly hadn’t anticipated this. Her manicured hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in genuine, breathless shock. “Then… the letter I slipped into your backpack sophomore year,” she asked, her voice trembling with a perfectly calibrated dose of grievance. “Why didn’t you ever respond?” Steven froze, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Weren’t you dating Braden back then?” And just like that, over the rim of half-empty cocktail glasses, an eight-year-old misunderstanding unspooled. It turned out, Judy had slipped her love letter into the wrong black backpack. That one careless mistake was the only thing that had kept them apart. The moment the truth settled over them, Judy’s eyes brimmed with cinematic tears. Steven stared at her, his typically guarded face stripped bare, completely awash in shock and profound, tragic regret. Just then, a voice cut through the heavy air from across the table, dripping with sarcasm. “Come on, nobody is thatunlucky. Makes you wonder if someone noticed that letter and swapped it on purpose, right?” The air in the private dining room evaporated. Every single pair of eyes snapped away from the star-crossed lovers and aimed directly at me. Most of the people in this room had no idea that Steven and I had been married for five years. To them, I was just the clueless, delusional ugly duckling who had spent all of college chasing after the campus golden boy. I turned my head to look at Steven. I was clinging to the very last, fraying thread of hope, praying he would say something. Anything. Just one sentence to clear my name. Just tell them that he was the one who had relentlessly pursued me. But he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, looking at me with the same complicated, scrutinizing gaze as everyone else. In that quiet, agonizing space between my heartbeat and my next breath, I reached beneath the table and silently twisted the wedding band I had worn for five years. I told myself what I had been avoiding for half a decade: This circus is finally over. 1 The drinks kept flowing. Judy, crying a delicate, beautiful kind of tears, had scooted her chair flush against Steven’s. They were entirely locked in their own world. “I can’t believe it was all a stupid mix-up,” she whispered. “If I had just written your name on the envelope, you wouldn’t have thought… you wouldn’t have thought I belonged to someone else.” Steven’s eyes were heavy, dark with a sorrow I hadn’t seen in him since his father died. “Nobody could have known.” “That it would end up like this.” Judy was getting emotional, aided by the four martinis she’d downed. Steven—my husband—stayed right by her side. His hand rubbed soothing, gentle circles on her back. He even flagged down a waiter to bring her a glass of iced lemon water to sober her up. Not once did he look my way. Around us, our former classmates buzzed like a hive of excited bees. “God, you can’t write this stuff. The ultimate missed connection, finally finding each other almost a decade later.” “So our valedictorian really was in love with the homecoming queen all along.” “Think about it—if they had gotten together back then, they’d probably have kids in grade school by now.” Then, that same venomous voice from earlier chimed in again. “Yeah, well, if a certain someone hadn’t been so shamelessly throwing herself at Steven, maybe they wouldn’t have lost all these years.” Their eyes darted toward me, not even trying to hide their disdain. Under the table, my nails bit so hard into my palms that they broke skin. I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to give them a reaction. After a flurry of whispering, a guy who used to be in our study group slid into the empty chair beside me. He leaned in, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey. “Come on, Gemma. It was you, wasn’t it?” he muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. “Just admit it. You switched the letter so they’d miss their shot.” Ice flooded my veins. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to tell him he was out of his mind, but the crowd didn’t wait for my truth. “I mean, it adds up.” “Everyone knew Steven and Judy were the golden couple waiting to happen. The sexual tension was insane.” “And then there was Gemma. Always lurking. Looking at Steven like a starving dog.” “We all saw it. Every time a late-night lecture ended, she was right there, begging him to walk the track with her. Who knows what kind of dirty tricks she pulled behind the scenes?” “Swapping a letter is child’s play for someone that desperate. Case closed.” They didn’t know. They didn’t know that Steven and I had been together for eight years, and married for five. They only remembered that we were always together on campus. And in their narrative, it was because I was pathetic. A toad lusting after a swan. But they didn’t know the reality. From day one, it was Steven who chased me. But Steven was intensely private. He hated public displays. He never posted me on his Instagram, never paraded me around. Behind closed doors, he was the one pushing for the relationship, initiating every milestone. But to the outside world, his passive silence made him look like the innocent victim of my obsession. He was the brilliant, untouchable business major, radiating potential wherever he went. And I was the girl everyone agreed was punching above her weight. But that didn’t give them the right to humiliate me. I turned my head and looked dead into the eyes of the guy sitting next to me. My face was a mask of cold stone. “If you’re tired of having a tongue in your mouth,” I said, my voice dangerously soft, “I can help you cut it out.” 2 The table went dead quiet. A guy across from me slammed his fist against the mahogany wood, rattling the silverware. He pointed a finger at me. “Who the hell do you think you are, Gemma?” he snapped. “If you were actually capable of anything, you wouldn’t have spent eight years chasing a guy who still won’t give you the time of day.” “Do you have any idea how much of a joke you are to everyone here? You really thought the ugly duckling was going to bag the prince.” A cruel ripple of muffled laughter washed over the table. My eyes burned. A hot, humiliating flush crept up my neck. I looked at Steven. He glanced at me for a fraction of a second, then deliberately shifted his gaze to the wall. In that moment, the platinum band on my left ring finger felt like it was burning through my flesh, constricting until my chest actually ached. Aside from Beckett—Steven’s business partner and oldest friend—not a single soul in this room knew the truth. I was Steven’s wife. And today wasn’t just a reunion. It was our fifth wedding anniversary. I hated crowds, hated these forced nostalgic gatherings. I had only agreed to come because Steven had begged me for weeks. “Gemma, it’s been years. If we don’t show up, people will think we’re hiding,” he had pleaded. “It’s just some old faces. We should make an appearance.” I had stayed silent then. Steven wasn’t exactly the life of the party either. His sudden, burning desire to attend a tacky alumni dinner made no sense. Until I found out Judy was on the guest list. When I had hesitated, he had pulled me into his arms, using that soft, coaxing tone he knew always broke my defenses. “Gem, you’re always complaining that I don’t claim you publicly. I promise you, at this reunion, I’m going to stand up and tell everyone that you’re my wife.” That was why I said yes. Yet here I was, surrounded by a pack of wolves tearing me apart for “failing” to get the man I had slept next to for half a decade, and Steven was completely silent. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I calmly set my fork and knife down on my plate. A hollow, freezing laugh escaped my lips. “Who says I never got him?” Everyone froze. A few people literally leaned forward, practically vibrating with gossip. “Wait, what? Are they… together?” Beckett, sitting at the far end of the table, was the only one who knew the weight of my words. He had never liked me. He thought I was too sharp, too demanding, and somehow believed I had manipulated Steven into marriage. Hearing the whispers, Beckett let out a sharp scoff and downed the rest of his bourbon. “Some people just don’t know their place,” he muttered loud enough for the room to hear. “Zero self-respect.” I ignored him. My eyes were locked onto Steven like a sniper. The moment the words had left my mouth, Steven’s body had gone completely rigid. He froze, his glass hovering halfway to his lips. He shot me a glare—a cold, terrifying warning. Don’t do it. Two seconds later, my phone vibrated on the table. It was a text from him. Don’t mention the marriage. Now is not the right time. I stared at the screen, a hysterical, bitter amusement bubbling up in my throat. Not the right time? No. It was just that he had finally realized his golden girl had wanted him back then. He thought there was a chance for them to rewrite history. And I was supposed to quietly step aside and let them have their romance? I placed my hands on the table and slowly stood up. “Steven,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “Weren’t you going to tell everyone the truth?” 3 Steven stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. He was wound as tight as a coiled spring. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, his jaw locked, he turned to the crowd. “Yes.” “Gemma and I… we dated for a while.” “But that was in the past. We broke up.” My head snapped back as if he had physically struck me. I stared at him, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms I felt wetness. Beside him, Judy looked up, her face blooming into an expression of pure, unadulterated joy. “Really? You’re… you’re single right now?” The room erupted. The tension broke into a chaotic cheer. “Oh my god, I am so here for this!” “This is literally a movie! The right people always find their way back to each other.” “I am dying. This is so romantic. I would sell my soul to see you two finally get together!” Amidst the screaming and clapping, even Beckett—who usually looked at me with thinly veiled contempt—shot me a look of genuine pity. As he walked past my chair to hit the bar, he shook his head and whispered, “You brought this on yourself.” My legs gave out. I sank heavily back into my chair, entirely drained. Never in my darkest nightmares did I imagine Steven would stand in a room full of our peers and publicly erase our marriage, effectively throwing me to the wolves. The sarcastic jabs from the women across the table grew louder. “Wow, I thought she was going to drop a bomb. Turns out she’s just the bitter ex.” “Did you see the way she stood up? I literally thought she was going to claim she was his wife.” “Please. Look at her. Does she look like someone who could hold down a guy like Steven?” I looked down at the diamond on my left hand. I felt utterly, irredeemably pathetic. Seeing the blood drain from my face, Judy’s eyes flashed with triumphant cruelty. She picked up her champagne flute, walked around the table, and stopped right in front of me. “Gemma, I know it hurts to lose,” she said, her voice dripping with fake empathy. “But love is just like that. When it’s real, nothing can stand in its way.” “Steven admitted you guys had a fling. But clearly, you weren’t the right fit. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have broken up, right?” She tapped her glass against my untouched water goblet, the crystal making a sharp clink. “Cheers to moving on.” She tipped her head back and drank the whole thing. I remained frozen in my chair, a ghost in my own body. Later in the night, as Steven made his rounds with a bottle of tequila, he eventually reached my side of the table. Under the guise of clinking my glass, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “Gem, be an adult,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t embarrass Judy.” I looked up at him, my eyes dead. Steven couldn’t hold my gaze. He immediately stepped away, migrating right back to Judy’s side. They were laughing. Whispering. I hadn’t seen his eyes crinkle at the corners like that in years. Soon enough, the crowd, drunk and loud, started chanting. “Do a sweetheart shot! Come on, hook your arms! You owe us!” The people who didn’t know he had a wife waiting at home were relentless. “Do it! It’s a decade overdue!” “You’re both single! What are you afraid of?” “Get him drunk enough and he’ll have to take you back to your hotel, Judy! We’re all adults here!” The comments were devolving into raunchy, humiliating dares. I closed my eyes, a physical nausea washing over me. Suddenly, Beckett, swaying slightly from the liquor, was standing next to me. “Hey, Gemma, don’t let it get to you. It’s just alumni nostalgia,” he slurred, though his eyes looked anxious. “He’s just caught up in the ‘what-ifs.’ You’re his wife. Taking a shot isn’t gonna end your marriage.” But even as Beckett said it, his brow was furrowed, his eyes darting nervously toward Steven. Anyone with eyes could see it. Steven wasn’t just playing along. He was drowning in it. I started pouring vodka into my water glass, throwing it back straight. Again and again. Even when I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, holding my own hair over the toilet, Steven didn’t come looking for me. When I finally wiped my mouth and pushed back into the private dining room, the first thing I saw was Steven. He had Judy pinned against the edge of the table. Their bodies were completely flush. They were kissing. “Oh shit, Gemma’s back!” someone yelled. Steven and Judy ripped apart. But it was too late. Steven’s lips were visibly smeared with cherry-red lipstick. He panicked, taking a step back from her, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “Gemma, we were just playing a drinking game—” “A game, right?” A cold, broken laugh ripped out of my throat. I grabbed the heavy crystal highball glass off the nearest table and raised it above my head. Beckett lunged forward. “Gemma, stop, don’t be crazy!” He was too late. I hurled the glass straight at the floor between Steven’s feet. It exploded like a grenade. Shards of thick crystal flew in every direction. “Ah! Steven, it hurts!” One of the larger shards had sliced deep into Judy’s calf, right above her designer heel. Blood immediately bloomed through her sheer tights. Steven’s face morphed into absolute fury. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Gemma?!” 4 I stared at him, the ice in my chest solidifying into something permanent. “Yeah. I guess I am.” I was out of my mind for ever believing in him. Suddenly, a girl near the front of the room gasped, pointing at my left hand. “Wait… Gemma, is that a wedding ring? Are you married to someone else? And you’re here losing your mind over an ex?” “Oh my god, she’s actually married! Does anyone know her husband? Call him! Tell him his wife is out here acting like a psycho over Steven!” She stepped toward me, aggressively reaching out to shove my shoulder. I let out a low laugh and caught her wrist mid-air, my grip like a vice. “My husband is dead,” I said, staring unblinkingly into her eyes. “Would you like to meet him? Because I’ll happily send you six feet under right now.” The girl’s face lost all its color. She yanked her hand back, stumbling away from me in sheer terror. “They’re right. You’re a complete psycho.” I let go of her, slowly twisting the platinum band off my ring finger. I looked at Steven, my lips curving into a sneer. Before we walked into this restaurant tonight, he had been wearing the exact same band. Sometime between the coat check and the appetizers, he had slipped it into his pocket. “Are you going to keep playing deaf and dumb?” I asked him, my voice devoid of any emotion. “I don’t have time for your unhinged bullshit right now!” Steven barked, his eyes glued to the blood trickling down Judy’s leg. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms. “Hang on, Judy, I’m taking you to the ER.” “I’ll drive!” someone yelled. “We’re coming too!” Within seconds, the chaotic room emptied out, leaving behind nothing but half-eaten food, spilled wine, and shattered glass. Beckett was the last to leave. He lingered by the door, watching me with a deeply conflicted expression. “Gemma… you drank way too much tonight. Let me call you an Uber. Or I can drive you.” I brushed past him, knocking his hand away. “Don’t bother.” I walked out to the street, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of the private hospital Steven’s company always used. When I walked onto the pristine VIP floor, I found him immediately. He was sitting by Judy’s bed. He had stayed by her side, tending to her like she was made of spun glass, until he had literally fallen asleep in the chair next to her, his head resting near her hip. I watched as Judy reached out, brushing his hair back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. Then she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. She froze. A minute later, she limped out into the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway, closing the door behind her. She immediately put on her pitiful, wounded-bird act. “Gemma, I know you had feelings for him back in the day. But you heard him tonight. He doesn’t love you anymore.” “You’ve clung to him for so long. If you were really the love of his life, he would have married you by now. But he didn’t. That says everything.” “Please. Just for the sake of the good old days… have some dignity. Stop stalking him. Okay?” If a stranger walked by, they would have thought I was the deranged mistress harassing the devoted girlfriend. I looked at her. Really looked at her. Judy. The campus untouchable. The girl with the perfect hair, the perfect grades, the fragile smile that made men want to bleed for her. Even tonight, all she had to do was utter one sentence about a letter in a wrong backpack, and an entire room of adults swallowed it without chewing. A cold smile spread across my face. “Judy, drop the act. There’s no audience here. Who are you performing for?” Her pale face tightened. “What are you talking about?” “You think I don’t know? You think nobody saw you?” I stepped closer, invading her space. “I was there. I watched you put that letter into Braden’s bag. It wasn’t a mistake. You addressed it to Braden.” Panic flashed in her eyes, sharp and fast. She took a step back. “You’re lying.” “Braden was a 250-pound frat bro who barely passed intro to econ. Why on earth would I like him?” My smile turned wicked. “Because his dad owned half the real estate in the city.” I remembered it perfectly. I remembered watching Braden’s blacked-out Range Rover drop her off three blocks away from campus so nobody would see. I remembered catching them at an upscale outdoor mall on a Sunday, her arm looped through his, watching them walk straight into the lobby of the Four Seasons. And I remembered Steven back then. He was breathtakingly handsome, but he was broke. He wore the same three threadbare flannels, carried a cracked phone, and spent every hour outside of class working double shifts at a diner or handing out flyers in the freezing rain. I had been sitting in the stalls of the women’s restroom when I heard Judy talking to her sorority sisters at the sinks. “Steven is gorgeous, yeah, but he’s destitute. Who cares if he has a 4.0? Once he graduates, he’s just another guy drowning in debt.” “I’d be signing up for a life of struggling to pay rent. I’m not an idiot.” “Let the pathetic girls like Gemma have him. They deserve each other.” So, I knew exactly why Judy was suddenly so heartbroken over a “switched letter.” Steven wasn’t the broke kid in the flannel anymore. He had built an empire. He was wealthy, powerful, and polished. I also knew through the grapevine that Judy had recently been dumped by her married sugar daddy. The guy’s wife had literally dragged her to a clinic to force an abortion. She was desperate. She needed a new host to latch onto. And my husband was her golden ticket. Judy glared at me, her fragile facade dropping into something feral. “Go ahead. Run in there and tell him all that. Let’s see who he believes. The girl he’s been dreaming of for ten years, or the stalker he denied in front of fifty people tonight.” I threw my head back and laughed. “Why would I tell him?” “I came here tonight to tell you that you can have him. Steven is all yours. A gift.” Judy looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I looked down at the ring in my palm. Steven had bought this during the second year of his startup. It was the hardest year of our lives. He had drained his entirely depleted savings to buy it. After he swiped his debit card at the jeweler, he showed me his banking app. He had exactly fifty-two dollars left to his name. Not enough for a week’s worth of groceries. But he had slipped it onto my finger, his eyes blazing with a fierce, desperate love. “I’m going to give you the world, Gem. When we make it, I’ll buy you anything you want.” I had thrown my arms around his neck, crying, feeling like the richest girl on earth. “I don’t care about the money, Steven! As long as you love me, as long as I’m with you, I already have everything.” The echo of those words in my head made me want to vomit. We had no future left. I took a deep breath, handed the ring to Judy, and dropped it into her palm. “Here. Consider it a bonus.” She stared at the massive diamond, her eyes lighting up with unfiltered, greedy hunger, before her suspicion kicked back in. “Why are you doing this?” “There’s a catch, obviously.” I unzipped my clutch and pulled out a manila envelope, retrieving the document inside. I had signed it three days ago. “Tell Steven to sign the bottom. We’re getting a divorce.” Judy stood frozen in the corridor, her brain short-circuiting. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the hospital room swung open. “Judy? Who are you talking to?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427404”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I had been running on fumes for days. After a grueling string of all-nighters, pulling double shifts to secure a make-or-break account for my wife’s agency, my one saving grace was that today was Saturday. Before my head hit the pillow last night, I had made it perfectly clear to the house: I needed to sleep. Just one solid, uninterrupted block of unconsciousness. But the sun had barely crested the horizon when my bedroom door swung open. It was Frank, my father-in-law, his voice booming as if we were across a football field, telling me it was time for breakfast. I swallowed the grit in my throat, keeping my voice low. I told him no, thank you, I just needed to rest. He huffed, a sharp exhale of disapproval, and left the door cracked. I was drifting off, floating in that heavy, liminal space before deep sleep, when his voice pierced the drywall. He was shouting from the living room, demanding I get up and walk the dogs. They’re practically bursting, he yelled. I bit the inside of my cheek, calling back with strained patience that Joyce would walk them when she got back from her morning spin class. From the hallway, I heard his low, theatrical muttering. I pulled the pillow over my head. My brain was a heavy, aching sponge. I finally slipped under again, only to be jolted awake by the aggressive, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a broom handle hitting the baseboards right outside my door. That was it. I sat up, the exhaustion turning into a physical ache in my bones, and went to the door. I looked him dead in the eye and explained, slowly and deliberately, that I had been working graveyard shifts for a week to keep his daughter’s company afloat. I just wanted to sleep. He backed off, his face tight with faux-offense. Knowing he wouldn’t let it go, I clicked the deadbolt on my door. A second later, the wood rattled under the force of his fist banging against it. I had hit my absolute limit. 1. I yanked the door open so hard the hinges whined. “Frank, what exactly is the goal here?” I snapped, my voice raw. “I told you I’m sleeping. I have to be back at my desk on Monday!” Frank stood there, his face an unreadable mask of boomer entitlement. He didn’t even flinch. “You locked the door,” he muttered defensively. “For all I knew, you were dead in there.” I closed my eyes, inhaling the stale air of the hallway, forcing the spike of adrenaline in my chest to recede. “Fine. Dad. Fine,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “I’ll leave it unlocked. Can you just please, for the love of God, let me get a few hours?” I stepped back, grabbing the edge of the door, but his voice slithered through the gap, light and laced with poison. “Toby hasn’t been home in a while. You’re off today, aren’t you? Be a man and go pick up your son. Bring him back for the weekend.” My brow furrowed, a dull throb pulsing at my temples. “Frank, I sent Toby to stay with my dad because I’ve been drowning in work. We haven’t had a spare second to breathe, let alone give a four-year-old the attention he needs. The minute this launch is over, I’m bringing him home.” He opened his mouth to argue, but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I pushed the door shut, cutting off whatever guilt trip he was about to lay on me. Through the thin wood, I heard the inevitable grumbling. “Some father. Dumps his own flesh and blood across town and doesn’t even care. Disgraceful…” I leaned the back of my head against the door, the wood cool against my feverish skin. My chest felt tight, the air trapped in my lungs. It took everything in me not to swing the door open and scream. Did he think I was pulling all-nighters for my own health? Joyce’s client—the one who had been dragging her feet for six months—was notoriously difficult. I had spent the last four nights buried in pitch decks, massaging egos, and practically begging on my knees to get them to the table. And it worked. I had locked down a fifty-million-dollar account. Thinking about the commission, about the life it could give Toby, about the oxygen it would pump back into this suffocating household… it took the edge off my rage. I fumbled in the dark for the AC remote, cranked it down to sixty-five, pulled the heavy duvet over my shoulders, and sank into the mattress. But sleep is a fragile thing. The moment I started drifting, the muffled, nasal sound of Frank’s voice echoed from the living room. He was on FaceTime. With my dad. Which meant he was talking to Toby. I was too paralyzed by exhaustion to open my eyes. I just rolled over. Then, the bedroom door flew open. The stifling, humid July heat from the apartment spilled into the freezing room. My body went rigid. Every ounce of fatigue evaporated, replaced by a pure, white-hot fury. I peeled my eyes open. Frank was standing at the foot of my bed, holding his iPhone out in front of him, a saccharine, exaggerated smile plastered on his face. “Oh, my sweet boy, Grandpa misses you so much!” Frank cooed at the screen. “Look at your daddy. Middle of the day and he’s still laying in bed. He doesn’t even want to come pick you up.” Before I could even process the audacity, he flipped the camera around, pointing the lens squarely at me. On the screen, Toby’s huge, doe-like eyes stared back at me. His lower lip was trembling, his sweet, soft voice thick with tears. “Daddy…?” In a fraction of a second, the anger completely vanished, hollowed out by a crushing wave of guilt. “Daddy, when are you coming to get me? I miss you…” I looked past Toby’s face on the screen and saw my own father in the background, his expression a mix of helplessness and quiet anger. I swallowed the lump of sandpaper in my throat. “Hey, buddy,” I whispered, forcing a smile. “Daddy’s just been working really, really hard. But the second I’m done, I’m coming straight to get you, okay? I promise.” But Frank wasn’t going to let that happen. He leaned in, his voice taking on that shrill, mocking pitch. “Oh, listen to that! Daddies shouldn’t lie to their little boys, should they? Look at him, Toby. He’s tucked in bed under a big blanket. Does he look like he’s working to you?” Toby, innocent and easily swayed, sniffled. “Yeah, Daddy… you’re just sleeping in your room.” I shot Frank a look that could have shattered glass. I sat up, leaning toward the phone. “Toby, listen to me. Daddy hasn’t slept in a long time. Today is my first day off, and I just need to close my eyes for a little bit.” Toby nodded slowly, trying to understand. My dad jumped in, his voice soothing as he tried to change the subject and distract the boy. But Frank was relentless. “Don’t listen to him, Toby. Your dad just doesn’t love you enough to get out of bed. If he loved you, he’d be here.” The words hung in the air. On the screen, Toby’s face crumpled, and he let out a heartbreaking, heaving sob. My dad scrambled, a frantic “We gotta go, bye” slipping out before the screen abruptly went black. That broken little sob. It was the match in the powder keg. Every ounce of stress, exhaustion, and humiliation I had swallowed over the past week detonated. I looked up at Frank. 2. “What is wrong with you?!” I roared, my voice tearing through the quiet apartment. “You know exactly what I’ve been doing! You know I’ve been working the graveyard shift for your daughter! Why the hell would you say that to a four-year-old?” Frank snatched the phone to his chest, his face hardening into a scowl. “He’s a kid, he doesn’t understand anyway,” Frank scoffed, completely unbothered. “I just wanted him to see you. You don’t have to throw a temper tantrum. Selfish.” He turned on his heel and walked out, purposefully leaving the door wide open so the oppressive, stagnant heat of the living room could continue to ruin the chill of my room. My legs felt like lead as I pushed myself out of bed. I walked to the door, slammed it shut, and drove the deadbolt home. This time, I didn’t care who it offended. The cool air from the vent hit my flushed face, and I stood there for a moment, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. I couldn’t leave Toby like that. Not thinking I didn’t want him. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and called my dad back. It rang four times before he picked up. In the background, I could hear Toby’s hitching, wet breaths. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in my ribs. “Toby, hey, it’s Daddy,” I said, dropping my voice to a soft, even murmur. Hearing me, he just cried harder, his voice tiny and fractured. “Daddy… do you not want me anymore?” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I squeezed them shut, murmuring assurances, repeating the same promises over and over until the words lost their shape. It felt like hours, my voice turning hoarse, until his cries finally subsided into quiet sniffles. He started negotiating, the way kids do. “I know, buddy, I know,” I promised. “I’ll be there in a few days. And I’ll get you that Buzz Lightyear toy you wanted. The one with the real laser, okay?” The mention of the toy finally earned a shaky “okay” from him. My dad let out a heavy sigh—a mix of relief and shared exhaustion—and we hung up. I looked at the clock. It was almost noon. My entire morning, my one precious window of recovery, had been shredded into pieces. I wasn’t doing this anymore. I switched my iPhone to ‘Do Not Disturb’, tossed it into the bedside drawer, and shoved it shut. I had already told the agency: unless the building was literally on fire, I did not exist today. I had earned this rest. I had bought it with fifty million dollars. But peace is a luxury I apparently couldn’t afford. I hadn’t been asleep for twenty minutes before the noise started. Frank wasn’t even trying to hide it. He was in the kitchen, deliberately slamming cabinet doors, dropping ceramic bowls onto the granite counter with bone-rattling force. He wanted me awake. Ten minutes later, he was at my door again, pounding on it, shouting my name. When he realized it was locked, the pounding turned into violent, open-handed thumping. 3. I pulled the duvet over my head, squeezing my eyes shut, pretending I was dead. From the hallway, his voice dripped with sarcasm. He was practically shouting to an empty room, complaining about how his daughter had married a “kept man.” A few minutes passed. Then he started yelling that the dishes from last night needed washing. I shoved my hand into the nightstand, found my foam earplugs, and twisted them deep into my ear canals until the world went fuzzy and distant. Finally, I drifted off. I woke up drowning in sweat. The sheets were clinging to my skin, the room thick and suffocating. I shot up in bed, ripping the earplugs out. The AC was dead. Through the door, I could hear the loud, boisterous chatter of several older men. The living room sounded like a sports bar. I didn’t even need to guess. He had flipped the breaker. His voice carried clearly through the drywall, performing for his audience. “I’m telling you guys, you’ve never seen anything like it. Sleeps till noon. What kind of man does that? Marries into our family, eats our food, lives under our roof, and does absolutely nothing! Useless. Just spectacularly lazy.” The words grew uglier, each sentence a calculated strike at my dignity. My hands were shaking. Not from exhaustion, but from a deep, vibrating rage. I threw the covers off, marched to the door, and ripped it open. Four of the neighborhood retirees—Frank’s poker buddies—were sitting around our living room. They all stopped talking and stared at me, their eyes sweeping over me with undisguised contempt. Frank sat in his armchair, tilting his chin up, looking at me down his nose. “Well, look who decided to join the land of the living,” he sneered. “I was starting to think we’d have to check you for a pulse.” The older men chuckled, emboldened by Frank’s disrespect. “Must be nice,” one of them, a guy in a faded polo, muttered. “Sleeping in till noon on a Saturday. Wish I had a setup like that.” “A real man doesn’t let his wife do all the heavy lifting,” another chimed in, swirling the ice in his glass. “Doesn’t clean, doesn’t watch his own kid. It’s a shame.” I locked eyes with Frank, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Frank, can you drop the act? I spent the last four nights awake, pulling together a massive contract for Joyce’s firm. I just wanted to sleep for one day. Is that a crime?” I thought, maybe, in front of his friends, he would acknowledge the work I put into his daughter’s business. Instead, his face darkened. He slammed his hand down on the coffee table. “Bullshit!” he spat. “What do you know about contracts? You’re a glorified assistant holding my daughter’s purse! You’re just using it as an excuse to slack off!” The guy in the polo leaned forward, eager to throw gasoline on the fire. “Sounds just like my son-in-law. All talk, no walk. Sits at home living the high life, blasting the AC like money grows on trees. Waste of electricity!” “At least yours gave you a grandson,” another man grumbled. “Mine won’t even have kids. Talk about ‘financial freedom.’ I call it selfish.” That hit a nerve for Frank. He slapped his thigh dramatically. “Don’t even get me started! I had to beg them for a child, and all he does is dump the poor boy at his dad’s house. What is he even here for if he’s not providing? Just leaching off my daughter?” Something inside me snapped. The polite, respectful son-in-law I had played for three years evaporated. I glared at him, my voice dangerously low. “My son is not a prop for your ego. And he certainly wasn’t born for you.” I didn’t wait for his reaction. I walked straight past them, ignoring their shocked faces, and went to the hallway utility box. With a hard clack, I flipped the breaker for the master bedroom back on. “Don’t touch my power again,” I said, not looking back. “I’m too exhausted to entertain your high school drama today. When Joyce gets home, you can complain to her.” I turned toward my room. But I had barely taken two steps when Frank erupted. He shot off the couch like he’d been electrocuted, his voice shrill and hysterical. “I’ll tell you all the truth!” he screamed to the room. “My son-in-law is having an affair!” The entire living room went dead silent. He pointed a shaking finger at me, his eyes wide with malicious glee. “With that client! That executive woman! You think a contract takes four days of ‘overnight work’? Please! God only knows what disgusting, degrading things he’s doing with her behind closed doors to get her to sign!” I spun around, my vision literally going dark at the edges. “Watch your mouth, Frank!” I yelled. “You think securing a multi-million-dollar account is like sitting around gossiping with your buddies? I bled for this deal! For this family! To take the stress off your daughter!” But Frank was too far gone. He was putting on a show, throwing his arms up. “Save your lies! The minute Joyce walks through that door, I’m telling her to file for divorce. I am done with you!” His friends, realizing they had waded into dangerously volatile family trauma, suddenly found their shoes very interesting. They muttered quick excuses and practically tripped over themselves rushing out the front door. Once his audience was gone, Frank dropped the tough-guy act and went full martyr. He grabbed a ceramic coffee mug from the table and hurled it at the floor, shattering it. He kicked a bowl of fruit off the counter. Then, he literally sat down on the hardwood floor, slapping his knees, wailing and cursing my name, calling me every vile, degrading thing he could think of. I felt absolutely nothing. The anger was gone, replaced by an icy, hollow void. I turned around, walked into my bedroom, and shut the door. 4. Frank’s tantrum didn’t last long without an audience. Eventually, the living room fell blessedly silent. The tension that had kept my muscles coiled all morning finally began to loosen. My eyelids felt like sandpaper. I crawled back into bed, desperately seeking the oblivion of sleep. I had been under for maybe twenty minutes when a sound ripped through the drywall. BZZZZZ-R-R-R-R-R. A power drill. Right against my bedroom door. I leaped out of bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The sheer, unadulterated malice of it sent a rush of adrenaline straight to my brain. I stormed to the door and slammed my fist against the wood. “Are you out of your damn mind?! Put the drill down!” The whining motor abruptly stopped. My hands were shaking with pure, unadulterated rage as I unlocked the deadbolt and ripped the door open. SMACK. A sharp, stinging blow cracked across my left cheek. My head snapped to the side. A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ear. The skin of my face burned, instantly going numb. I stood there, utterly paralyzed. I slowly turned my head back. Standing in front of me was the woman I had been killing myself to support. Joyce. Her face was a mask of furious contempt, her eyes cold and hard. Over her shoulder, I saw Frank sitting on the couch. He was holding a hand over his heart, breathing heavily, but the corner of his mouth was curled into a smug, victorious little smirk. Joyce didn’t even blink. Her voice was icy and impatient. “Is this how you treat my father when I’m not here?” I pressed a hand to my burning cheek, my brain struggling to process the reality of the moment. “Treat him? What are you talking about?” “He called me in tears during a board meeting!” she yelled, stepping into my space. “He said you screamed at him in front of his friends and nearly gave him a heart attack! He begged you to open the door so he could get his medication, and you locked him out!” Her voice grew louder, sharper. “I called you ten times. You didn’t pick up. Is this the kind of man I married?” From the couch, Frank let out a weak, pathetic groan. “I can’t take it, Joyce… The disrespect… I don’t want to be a burden in my own home…” I trembled, pointing a shaking finger at him. “Joyce, look at him! Does he look like he’s having a heart attack? I worked three night shifts in a row to land your firm the Lewis account! I put my phone on silent so I could sleep for four hours. Is that a crime?” Joyce glanced down at the cordless drill by her feet, then back at me, her lip curling. “So you pulled an all-nighter. Do you want a medal? Are you really so fragile that you can’t even check on my father?” Frank chimed in, his voice dripping with venom. “That’s not even the half of it, Joyce. He won’t lift a finger. Left the dishes. And earlier? Toby called, crying, begging to talk to his dad, and he just hid in his room and ignored the boy. Stone cold.” That was the kill shot. Joyce’s eyes went wide, red rims forming around her irises as her anger boiled over. “Did you hear that?!” she shrieked, pointing at me. “Did you hear what you did? You do nothing around this house, and when your own son cries for you, you hide in your room like a coward!” “Do I keep you around just for decoration? Are you even a husband? Are you even a father? You don’t give a damn about this family!” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. The injustice of it all burned my throat, hot tears of frustration pricking my eyes. “And what about your father?!” I shouted back. “He stood in front of a room full of people and accused me of cheating! He told them I was sleeping with Margaret Lewis to get the contract! He humiliated me. What do you have to say about that?” Frank’s eyes darted away, a flash of genuine panic crossing his face before he looked down, playing the victim. But Joyce didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even flinch. “Our senior VPs chased the Lewis account for six months and got nowhere,” she said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm, cynical tone. “You step in, and three days later it’s signed. God only knows what kind of shady, pathetic things you did to get it.” The air left the room. My blood ran completely cold. She looked at my red, exhausted eyes without a shred of empathy. “I handed you a fifty-million-dollar opportunity, Daniel. Not so you could use my company’s resources to play gigolo with a wealthy executive. I trusted you. And this is how you repay me?” I let out a breathless, broken laugh. Three years. Three years of grinding myself to the bone, of loving her, of building this life. And in her eyes, I was nothing but dirt. Frank looked up, his smirk now fully visible, gloating from the safety of the couch. I looked at Joyce, the woman I thought was my partner. My voice came out as a quiet, trembling whisper. “Wow. Okay. You believe him. He told your friends he wants us to get a divorce. So, what is it, Joyce? Are we done?” I stared at her. Deep down, in some pathetic, broken corner of my heart, I was waiting for her to blink. To realize what she was saying. To pull back. But her eyes were dead. “We’re done,” she stated, her voice like steel. “And as CEO of this agency, I’m telling you: you’re fired.” My heart didn’t break; it disintegrated. I looked at Frank’s triumphant face, then back to Joyce. I nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay.” “Joyce, everything I have done, I did for you. And you choose to be blind to it. You choose his lies. Fine. Tomorrow, we file the papers. I promise you, you’re going to regret this.” I turned, walked into my bedroom, and grabbed my phone from the drawer. I opened my messages, found Margaret Lewis’s contact, pressed the microphone icon, and spoke clearly into the receiver: “Margaret. The contract tomorrow. Cancel it. I’ve just been let go.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427403”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I spent five years in that cramped, suffocating two-bedroom apartment, playing nurse to my dying grandmother. I was the one who handled her meds, changed her sheets, and made sure the water bill was paid on time every single month. Nana would put on her thick reading glasses, pat my head with a trembling hand, and whisper, “My sweet June, you’re the only one who truly cares.” But Nana passed away yesterday, and her will didn’t just break my heart—it turned it to stone. The notary handed me a final notice for a five-hundred-dollar delinquent water bill. Then, with a practiced, robotic chill, he handed my younger brother a black titanium debit card linked to an account holding five million dollars. “The will officially executes in three days,” the notary said. “Until then, the funds are frozen.” My brother, Toby, snatched the card out of the air. He lunged forward and yanked the water bill from my hand, scanning it before exploding into a fit of jagged, ugly laughter. “Jesus, June! Even from the grave, the old lady’s making sure you pull your weight,” he sneered. “Tell you what, if you beg me—really get down on your knees—maybe I’ll cover this for you.” My mother nudged him, a playful reprimand, but she couldn’t hide the predatory gleam in her eyes. “Don’t tease her, Toby. This is your sister’s last chance to show how much she loved her grandmother. It’s a privilege.” My father stood there, beaming at his son, his ‘golden boy.’ He took the water bill and flicked it at my chest like it was trash. “It was her dying wish, June. Make sure it’s paid.” I stared at the account number on that bill—a number I knew by heart after five years of drudgery. My chest ached with a bitterness so sharp I could taste it. Toby, who hadn’t visited Nana once in five years, got her life’s work. And I, the “sweet, dutiful girl,” got a five-hundred-dollar debt. Toby was already pacing, loudly planning the luxury villa he was going to buy in three days. My parents flanked him, arms draped over his shoulders, a perfect, glowing portrait of a family. I was just the shadow standing in the corner, forgotten. … “Yeah! Is this the agency? I’m looking for a mansion. High-end. Take me to see some listings tomorrow!” Toby intentionally left the apartment door wide open, his voice echoing through the hallway like a blunt instrument. “Two master suites. One for my parents, one for me. The rest? I’m turning them into a pro-gaming lounge. Top-of-the-line gear only!” He was practically vibrating with greed. He hung up and finally spared a glance at me, his face twisting into a mask of fake sympathy. “Oh, June! My bad. I was so caught up with Mom and Dad, I totally forgot to count you in for a bedroom.” He shrugged, not looking sorry at all. “But hey, a five-thousand-square-foot place has plenty of corners. You want to visit? I’ll let you pitch a tent in the living room.” I looked at him, my lips curling into a cold, silent laugh. My mother stepped in, playing the peacemaker with a patronizing pat on my shoulder. “June, honey, don’t take it to heart. Nana gave you that bill because she knew you were the reliable one. She trusted you. You should carry that honor with you every day.” Reliable. Sweet. Dutiful. Five years ago, she used those exact words—dripping with manipulative tears—to talk me into dropping out of my senior year of college to care for Nana. Now, she was using them to tell me to shut up and take the crumbs. Why was I the one who had to sacrifice my future while they reaped the rewards? I gripped the water bill, my knuckles white, ready to scream. But my father cut me off with a glare. “Why are you even wasting your breath on her?” He turned to Toby, his voice softening with pride. “Toby is the only grandson. It’s only natural that my mother would leave the estate to the man who carries the family name.” He pulled his wallet out, fished out five hundred dollars in cash, and shoved it into my hand with a grunt. “There. I’ll pay the bill. Consider it a ‘bonus’ for your hard work these last few years.” Five years. From age twenty-two to twenty-seven. The most vibrant years of my life. In my father’s eyes, they were worth exactly five hundred dollars. When I didn’t move, his brow furrowed into a deep, angry V. “What? Is it not enough? June, let me teach you a lesson about life. Know your place. Be grateful for what you’re given.” My mother pulled on his sleeve, a token gesture of restraint. “Leave her be. She’s just grieving.” My father snorted. “My mother was a world-class environmental scientist. She was sharp as a razor. She knew exactly what she was doing when she gave June that bill. She wanted her to realize she’s a servant, not an heir.” They walked out, dragging Toby and his ego with them. Toby whistled as he passed me. “Five years in the sun, doing ‘research’ for a crazy old lady. What did it get you, June? Nothing. She loved me more. She always did.” The door slammed shut. The apartment fell into a tomb-like silence, smelling of the bitter herbal tea Nana used to drink. It tasted exactly like my life. I sat down at the small desk where Nana used to tinker with her gadgets. There was an old, cracked digital timer sitting there. The screen flickered with a countdown: Three days. I’d tried to buy her a new one once, but she’d just smiled and shaken her head. “Old things are like old friends, June. You don’t just throw them away when they’re broken.” Last night, before the paramedics took her, Nana’s hands had been shaking as she fumbled with the buttons on this timer. Three days. Exactly when the will was set to execute. Was she trying to remind us of the deadline? But why bother when it was already in writing? Nana had dedicated her life to environmental science. Even in her eighties, she’d insisted on going into the mountains to collect soil and water samples. She said she wanted to feel the earth beneath her feet while she still could. She wouldn’t let her grad students help. It was always just her. Until five years ago, when she had a massive heart attack at the base of the trailhead. The doctors said she needed twenty-four-hour care. I was at university, a month away from graduation. My professor had already promised me a faculty track position if my thesis passed. Then came the phone call from my mother. She was hysterical. “June, Nana is dying. There’s no one to watch her. You’re the eldest. You have to come home.” “Mom, can’t Toby help for just a month? I have my defense in four weeks,” I pleaded. Toby was nineteen then, a college dropout who did nothing but drain my parents’ bank account. My mother’s wailing intensified. “Toby was in a horrific car accident! Your father and I are at the ICU! He might not make it!” Then my father’s voice boomed in the background. “Your brother is fighting for his life and you’re worried about a damn paper? Do you want him to die?!” I didn’t think. I withdrew from my classes the next morning and caught the first bus home. I found out later the “car accident” was a lie. Toby had just totaled his car while drunk, and they wanted me home to do the chores so they could coddle him. That was the moment I realized I was the designated sacrificial lamb of the Sullivan family. After Nana came home, she was frail, but she was obsessed. She dragged me into the mountains every single day. “June, the world is about to change,” she’d whisper, her eyes burning with a terrifying clarity. “I have to finish. There isn’t much time.” I didn’t understand, but I obeyed. I woke up before dawn to hike with her. When she grew too weak to walk, I let her lean her entire weight on me. I hauled her up steep ridges and through dense brush. I fell more times than I can count, protecting her body with mine. My skin, once pale and clear, became tanned, scarred, and calloused. Once, in the city, I ran into an old classmate, Sarah. She stared at me for a full minute before gasping my name. “June? June Sullivan? My God, what happened to you? Did you join the Peace Corps or something? You look… rugged.” I just forced a smile. I hadn’t looked in a mirror in months. “June,” Sarah said, her voice dropping. “The professor still talks about you. If you hadn’t dropped out, that research fellowship would have been yours. I… I took the spot, actually.” Her words were a knife to the gut. I made an excuse and ran. My parents had wanted me to work in a factory after high school to pay for Toby’s tuition. I’d fought them, stayed up until 4 AM every night studying by candlelight, and earned a full-ride scholarship with a near-perfect SAT score. I thought I’d escaped. But their lies had dragged me back into the dark. The worst time was during the landslide. Rocks and mud came screaming down the slope. I didn’t even think; I just threw myself over Nana. A jagged rock sliced into my right arm, deep enough to see bone. In the ER, Nana watched them stitch me up, her eyes wet with tears. She called my parents. “June is hurt! It’s bad! Please, come to the hospital!” They didn’t even bother with an excuse this time. They just hung up. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even make a sound when the needle pierced my skin. That night, looking at graduation photos on Instagram, I called my mother one last time. “Mom… I want to go back to school. Please. Can Toby just help with Nana for one semester?” She clicked her tongue. “Toby is busy with his new business venture, June. Don’t be selfish. Don’t hold your brother back.” Business venture. They’d given him their entire savings to open a dive bar. He didn’t even run it; he just drank the inventory. He was losing ten thousand a month. If I’d finished my degree, I’d be making six figures. The failure was given everything. The success was stripped of her future. I finally snapped. “Why is it always me? Why am I the only one who has to lose?” My father took the phone. His voice was cold, lethal. “Because you are the daughter. It is your job to take care of this family. End of discussion.” Click. The dial tone was the coldest sound I’d ever heard. The news of the will spread fast. Toby saw to that. When I went to see the property manager to hand in my notice, the woman was practically vibrating with gossip. “June! I heard about your brother. Five million? A mansion? Must be nice.” I didn’t look up from the paperwork. She didn’t take the hint. “I actually have some listings in the hills. Maybe you could put in a good word for me with Toby?” I signed the form and turned to leave. “Oh, June!” she called out, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Don’t forget to pay that five-hundred-dollar water bill before you move out on Friday. We wouldn’t want that going to collections, would we?” The entire office erupted in snickers. I kept walking. Back at the apartment, my neighbor, Mrs. Gable, stopped by. “Oh, June. I heard. Five million to that boy who never showed his face? And you get… what?” I pointed to the bill on the desk. “A debt.” Her jaw dropped. “A water bill? Just a bill?” She sighed, shaking her head. “That poor woman. Her mind must have gone at the end. You spent every day on that mountain with her, scarred yourself for her… and he gets the gold.” “It’s fine, Mrs. Gable. I’m used to it.” After she left, the phone rang. It was my mother. “June, tomorrow is the holiday. Come over for dinner. We’re celebrating Toby’s big news.” Celebrating the brother who got everything while I got nothing? It was sick. But I went anyway. I needed a clean break. At the table, Toby was holding court. “I put the down payment on the villa today. Five hundred thousand, cash. Dad, Mom—your suite is on the second floor. Ocean view.” My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. “My son. My wonderful, successful son.” Toby glanced at me and pulled up a photo on his phone. “Look, June. We’re family, right? I picked out a room for you, too.” He showed me a picture of a windowless storage closet, barely five feet wide. I smiled, a thin, sharp thing. “Keep it. You’ll need the storage for all the junk you’re going to buy.” My mother’s face hardened. “June! Your brother is being generous. Learn some gratitude!” My father slammed his fork down. “Apologize to your brother. Now.” “No.” I pulled a legal document out of my bag and slapped it on the table. It was a formal severance of familial ties. “Nana is gone. My debt is paid,” I said. “As of today, I’m done with all of you.” Toby laughed, a wet, arrogant sound. “June, the will executes tomorrow. You’re a little late for a dramatic exit, don’t you think? You have nothing.” My father grabbed the paper and signed it with a flourish, his face red with rage. “Good! Get out! We don’t need a bitter, jealous leech in this house anyway!” I took the paper and walked out without looking back. Back at the apartment, I looked at the timer. One day left. I sighed and pulled out my phone to pay the five-hundred-dollar bill. I just wanted it over with. But when I logged into the utility app, my heart stopped. Current Balance: $0.00. I refreshed. Still zero. I called the water company, thinking it was a glitch. “Ma’am, that account has no outstanding balance,” the rep said. “In fact, it’s been flagged as ‘Internal Government Priority.’ I can’t even access the details.” I hung up and looked at the bill under the desk lamp. I noticed it then. In the bottom right corner, in a font so tiny it was almost invisible, was a string of numbers. 978328. My pulse began to thud in my ears. Nana had whispered those numbers on her deathbed. I’d asked her what they meant, and she’d gripped my hand with surprising strength. “…The door to the new world, June. Remember them. Only you.” I’d thought it was the delirium. The next morning, I woke up drenched in sweat. The air was thick, heavy. I checked the thermostat. It was 90 degrees inside. I checked the weather. It was 105 degrees outside. In early June. In a city that rarely broke 85. The heat felt… wrong. Malignant. There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find an elderly man in a crisp, charcoal suit, despite the blistering heat. It was Dr. Aris, Nana’s old colleague from the university. I ushered him in and went to get water, but he stopped me. His face was grave. “June, what I am about to tell you will sound like science fiction. But you need to listen.” He took a deep breath. “Five years ago, a group called The World Ark approached a handful of top scientists. They had data—undeniable data—predicting a global thermal extinction event. A ‘Great Heat’ that would begin today.” I stared at him, my mind racing. “The Ark offered us sanctuary,” he continued. “But there was a price. We had to spend our remaining years finalizing research that could jumpstart civilization after the collapse. Your grandmother… she was the lead.” My head spun. “You mean…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427402”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The pitying, prying eyes of my colleagues pricked at my skin like needles. It was only then, in that suffocating silence, that I realized Elena and I should have ended things a long time ago. After seven years of building her career from nothing, after being the shadow behind her spotlight, I was still the one man forbidden from touching the piano her father had left her. But just moments ago, Jace—the new kid in the orchestra, all bright eyes and practiced charm—had pointed to the Steinway beside Elena and asked, “I heard only your husband is allowed to play this. Can I try?” Elena hadn’t even hesitated. She didn’t even look at me. “Yes,” she said. 1 After the rehearsal, the orchestra manager caught me by the stage door. “Oliver, we’re making some changes to the program for the gala,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “The piano four-hands piece with Elena? You can take it off your schedule. She wants to perform it with Jace instead.” I’d seen it coming, but the news still felt like a slow twist of a blade in my chest. I didn’t argue. I just nodded, the bitterness coating the back of my throat. That night, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Diana,” I said when she picked up. “You once said you wanted to marry me at the Musikverein in Vienna. Does that offer still stand?” There was a long silence on the other end, the sound of someone waking up from a deep sleep. Her voice was thick with grogginess. “Am I dreaming?” “You can say no,” I began, my heart sinking. Suddenly, I heard a loud thud—the sound of someone falling out of bed. “Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes. Anytime, anywhere, Oliver. I’m in.” I let out a shaky laugh. For the first time all day, the weight on my chest lightened. When Elena finally came home, I was already packing. She didn’t notice the suitcase on the bed. She just kicked off her heels and sighed, her voice weary with feigned exhaustion. “Make me some tea, will you? The welcoming party for the new recruits was exhausting. That kid, Jace… he kept pushing drinks on me. I’m a bit buzzed.” I looked at her collar. There was a smear of light brown lipstick—a man’s tinted balm, the kind Jace wore. I didn’t move. “Elena, let’s break up.” She froze, her hand halfway to her neck. Only then did she notice the open luggage. She rubbed her temples, her eyes—those beautiful, captivating eyes that had owned me for a decade—flickering with annoyance. “Is this about the piano? Seriously, Oliver? Don’t be so petty. I’m just trying to keep the talent happy. We need him for the season.” Talent. He’d butchered the phrasing ten times in one movement. Some talent. She turned toward the bathroom, her tone dismissive. “Go fix that tea and stop overthinking. You’re being dramatic.” “Elena,” I said, my voice like cold stone. “I told you years ago. My life plan was to be married by thirty-five. I’m thirty-three now. I’m done waiting.” She stopped in her tracks. The fragile mask of patience she usually wore for me shattered. “Oliver, do you have any idea how pathetic it is to keep nagging me for a ring? It’s cheap. It makes you look desperate.” She turned to face me, her words sharp as glass. “The orchestra is in its prime. I can’t waste my energy on something as mundane as a wedding right now.” Every word was a strike to the softest parts of my heart. Seven years. I had built this orchestra from a garage project to a national powerhouse. Every tour, every donor, every glowing review—I had traded my health and my own ambitions for those things, only to be told I was “cheap.” Her energy was expensive, apparently. Expensive enough for her piano. Expensive enough for a boy she’d known for less than twenty-four hours. She cared about the height of Jace’s piano stool and whether he was having fun at the party, but for the man who had stood by her when she was a nobody, even the most important milestones were just a “waste.” I sighed, meeting her gaze with a finality that seemed to unsettle her. “I’m tired, Elena. It’s a wedding or a breakup. Pick one.” That was the end of her rope. She slammed her coat onto the sofa. “Fine. Break up. Do whatever you want.” As the shower started running, a wave of cold grief washed over me. I’d always known I wasn’t her first choice. She’d always had a line of suitors. I was just the one with the most endurance, the one who stayed when things were bleak. She was tethered to me by guilt, not love. Love is obvious. Love remembers. When I asked for a birthday cake, she’d buy one, but never the flavor I liked. When I was sick and asked for medicine, she’d go—but she’d only remember to bring it back two days after my fever broke. My “Groom’s Guide to Wedding Planning” and the “Three-Month Pre-Wedding Checklist” were tucked away in the back of the closet, hidden because the sight of them made her lip curl in disgust. Seven years of a marathon, and I was the only one running. I was exhausted. 2 My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. It was the orchestra’s group chat. Jace had posted a video of him and Elena playing a duet on her father’s piano. In the video, he’d placed a glass of wine directly on the mahogany finish—something Elena would have killed me for doing. They were leaning into each other, their faces inches apart, eyes locked in a scripted, flirtatious heat. Jace’s caption read: “Just the new guy getting some special treatment. Hard to believe I’ve already surpassed the veterans of seven years. So touched by Elena’s favoritism. ” Elena, who was still in the shower, had somehow replied instantly from her Apple Watch: “You earned it. ” They went back and forth, Elena using heart emojis and playful slang I’d never seen her use. I remembered three years ago when I secured a major grant for the orchestra. I’d posted in the chat, half-joking: “Does the director have a reward for her MVP? Maybe a dinner date?” That message hung there for twenty-four hours. No reply. When I finally asked her about it, she looked at me like I was a child. “Oliver, you’re nearly thirty. Asking for public validation is embarrassing. I’m not going to humiliate myself by indulging that.” I was twenty-nine then. I had spent weeks wondering if I really was being immature. But look at her now. The iceberg was melting for the right person. The difference wasn’t the behavior; it was the man. I didn’t leave a note. I just took my suitcase and walked out. In the days that followed, I began the process of resigning from the board. I stopped killing myself for the orchestra’s logistics and kept a professional distance from Elena. If she was getting closer to Jace, I looked the other way. Until the morning my mother called, her voice trembling. “Oliver… your father found out about you and Elena. He’s collapsed. He’s in the ICU.” My heart stopped. “What happened to his insurance? Why isn’t he being moved to the specialist wing?” “We don’t have the card, Oliver. You gave his private insurance ID and the medical power of attorney files to Elena months ago for that specialist she promised to call. We can’t get him the treatment without those documents.” Panic flared in my chest. I’d given those to Elena back when she said she’d handle it, and then she’d “forgotten” to ever follow up. I called her a dozen times. No answer. I drove to the house, but when I tried the keypad, the code had been changed. Desperate, I smashed a side window and climbed in. The sight inside stopped me cold. The minimalist, pristine sanctuary Elena insisted on was gone. The living room was littered with designer toys, gaming consoles, and Jace’s dirty socks and cigarette packs. I remembered when I wanted to put a small Marvel lamp in the bedroom. Elena had sneered, “Don’t pollute my aesthetic with your cheap, low-rent taste, Oliver.” I didn’t have time to process the hypocrisy. I started tearing through the office looking for the insurance cards. Suddenly, a heavy boot struck my ribs, sending me sprawling to the floor. Two police officers pinned me down. “We got a call about a break-in,” one grunted. “Don’t move.” In the interrogation room, the detective stared at me with pure skepticism. “You say you’re her boyfriend, but there isn’t a single photo of you in that house. No clothes, no toothbrush. Nothing.” “I lived there for years!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “We called the orchestra. The new director, Jace Keller, says he’s the one in charge and that you’re a disgruntled ex-employee who’s been stalking Ms. Rossi. You want to try again, Oliver?” I was shaking. On the table, my confiscated phone lit up with a call from my mother. It lit up, went dark. Lit up, went dark. My father was dying, and I was trapped in a room because of a lie. “Fine,” I whispered, defeated. “I’ll confess to the trespass. Just let me see my father. He’s in critical condition.” The detective scoffed. “And now the ‘dying father’ play. You think we’re idiots? Ms. Rossi and her partner said you can’t be released until they’ve finished an inventory of the property. They think you stole some jewelry.” I was held for forty-eight hours. On the third day, Elena finally showed up. 3 She wasn’t alone. Jace was at her side, looking sharp in a designer jacket, followed by a few members of the orchestra’s inner circle. Jace stepped forward, a fake look of contrition on his face. “Oh man, Oliver. I had no idea it was you. I just saw someone through the security feed and panicked. I’m so sorry you had to spend a couple of nights in the clink.” He turned to the others, grinning. “My bad, guys. I guess I was just so stressed from taking over the director’s duties and planning our trip that I got jumpy. I’ll make it up to you, Oliver.” Elena grabbed his arm, her eyes cold as they landed on me. “Don’t apologize. He broke in. He knows better than to show his face at my house after a breakup.” “Elena,” I said, my voice raw. “My father’s insurance card. The power of attorney. Where are they? He’s dying.” She looked startled, as if the memory of my father’s heart condition was a distant, annoying fly she’d forgotten to swat. She began rummaging through her bag, but it was clear she had no idea where the documents were. She’d probably tossed them in a junk drawer months ago. Then, my phone rang. The detective let me take it. “Oliver,” my mother whispered. “He’s gone. Your father is gone.” The phone slipped from my hand. I looked at Elena. “Don’t bother looking. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Her expression flickered with something like guilt, but I was too numb to care. I stood up to leave, but Jace blocked my path. “Hold on, Oliver. You were in the house for a while. We need to check your bag. Make sure no ‘souvenirs’ went missing.” Before I could react, Jace grabbed my messenger bag and flipped it over. A dozen elegant, cream-colored envelopes spilled onto the floor—the wedding invitations Diana had sent over for me to proofread. Jace laughed, picking one up. “Wow. You’re still obsessed with marrying Elena? Did you really think making fake invitations would win her back? Was the ‘dying dad’ thing just a script to get inside?” I stared at him. “Are you done?” Jace had seen what he wanted to see. He stepped back. I gathered the invitations, my hands steady despite the hole in my soul. As I walked out, Elena chased after me. She caught my arm in the hallway. “Where are you staying?” “Not your concern. Go back to Jace.” She let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “You’re jealous. That’s what this whole performance is.” “Think whatever you want.” “Oliver, enough!” she snapped, her patience gone. “You’ve had your little tantrum. Just wait a few more years for the wedding, okay? Why do you have to be so manipulative about it?” I shook her hand off. “I am getting married, Elena. But not to you. And I will never ask anything of you again. Do you understand?” She blanched for a second, then smirked. “Oliver, you’re thirty-three. You look like hell. Who else is going to marry you? Stop the middle-school games.” “Don’t worry about me.” I turned to go, but she softened her voice, that old manipulative pull. “Look, Saturday is your birthday. You’ve been begging to meet my mother for years. I’ll host a dinner at the Rossi estate. We’ll call it even. Okay?” I was stunned. Not because she was being kind, but because for seven years, I was the only one who remembered birthdays. She’d never even bought me a card. I decided to go. Not for her, but because the guest list for a Rossi gala included the industry titans I needed to network with to start my new life. But when I arrived at the estate on Saturday, I realized the dinner wasn’t for me. It was the night Elena was introducing Jace to her mother. I wasn’t the guest of honor. I wasn’t even a guest. “You must be the help Elena hired,” the butler said, grabbing me by the arm as I entered. “You’re late. The reception is starting. And what are you wearing? You look like you’re trying to be the groom.” 4 The music swelled in the ballroom. Elena and her mother entered, Jace draped on Elena’s arm like a trophy. I was shoved into the corner. Elena took the microphone, her voice projecting with practiced grace. “Tonight, I want to introduce you all to the future of the New York Philharmonic Circle—my protégé and the new director, Jace Keller.” I watched the room full of donors applaud. My chest felt hollow. I remembered when I made the finals of the National Piano Concours. My parents had been so proud, waiting to see me on TV. But the day before the finals, I was bumped for a donor’s son. I had begged Elena to use her influence to demand a fair hearing. She had told me: “Oliver, the world isn’t fair. People like you don’t get ‘backstage’ passes. You have to earn your place, not ride my coattails.” And yet, here she was, building a golden bridge for a boy who had earned nothing. “And now,” Elena announced, “Jace will perform an original composition for us.” Jace sat at the grand piano and began to play. My blood turned to ice. The melody was hauntingly familiar. It was the song my father and I had written together when I was seven years old. We were poor then. We didn’t have a piano, so my father had drawn the keys on our kitchen table with a Sharpie to teach me the notes. One evening, as the sun set over our cramped apartment, he hummed a melody. “This is for you, Oliver. We’ll call it ‘The Sunset Promise.’” I had spent my life perfecting that piece. It was my only connection left to him. And now, Jace was playing it as his “original.” Elena had been the only person I’d ever played it for. She had stolen it and given it to him. I caught her eye. She looked away, her phone buzzing in my hand a second later. “Don’t make a scene. Jace is performing with me at the Golden Hall in Vienna next week. People are questioning his depth. I did this for the sake of the orchestra.” The room erupted in applause as Jace finished. Elena stood by him, glowing with pride. Her mother stood up, beaming. “Not only a virtuoso, but a brilliant composer. Elena, you’ve found a treasure. The Rossi family would be lucky to have a man like this.” Elena didn’t contradict her. She just smiled. “Wait,” I said. My voice was raspy, but it carried through the room. “That piece belongs to my father. It’s not an original.” The room went silent. Every head turned. Elena’s brow furrowed. Jace’s face shifted into a mask of wounded innocence. “Oliver… I know you wanted to be the one standing here, but to accuse me of theft? That’s low.” Elena’s mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “So you’re the man who’s been harassing my daughter for seven years? No wonder she never brought you home. You have no class.” Elena stayed silent. She just looked exhausted. “Oliver, please. This desperation for a wedding… it’s suffocating. Just stop.” The guests began to whisper. “That’s the guy who follows her around like a dog.” “I thought he was the fiancé, but I guess he’s just a stalker.” “Pathetic.” Jace smirked, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Oliver, if I stole it, you’d have proof, right? On your phone? Show everyone the original file. If you have it, I’ll apologize.” I froze. I remembered I had some photos on my phone I’d forgotten to delete—old, badly photoshopped pictures of me and Elena in wedding attire I’d made during a lonely night months ago. Elena’s mother signaled the security to take my phone. I struggled, falling to the floor as I tried to keep it from them. Jace snatched it out of my hand. “Nothing to hide, right?” He hooked the phone up to the ballroom’s giant projector screen. “Let’s see what’s so secret.” He clicked the gallery. The room gasped, then erupted into mocking laughter. On the screen was a high-definition photo of a wedding. A man and a woman in a cathedral, laughing, looking radiantly in love. But it wasn’t the “photoshopped” mess they expected. It was a professional, stunning shot of me in a tuxedo—and the woman beside me wasn’t Elena. A voice from the back of the room called out, “Wait… is that Diana Roth?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427401”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My world no longer needs that cold, distant sun. It’s too late now, Killian. Everything is just too late. During our three years of marriage, I was a tireless sunflower, always pivoting to face him—Killian, the ice-cold titan of the venture capital world. I spent every waking moment trying to catch a stray spark of warmth from a man who seemed made of permafrost. Until one late night, when I saw it for the first time. A line of translucent white text drifted across his forehead, scrolling from left to right like a live commentary on a streaming video. [Why is she still awake? God, she’s so annoying.] In an instant, the truth shattered me. All the love I had poured into us, every ounce of devotion, was nothing more than static to him. Distracting background noise. My warmth wasn’t a gift; it was a cloying, suffocating weight. Fine. If I’m a burden, I’ll stop carrying the load. When I finally withdrew my affection, when I stopped orbiting his gravity and returned to my dusty studio to reclaim my own dreams, he was the one who began to unravel. The scrolling text above his head shifted. The disdain withered, replaced by a frantic, stuttering panic, eventually bleeding into a deep, bruised crimson of jealousy and regret. [Why didn’t she hug me today?] [Who is that man? Does he want to lose his hand?] [Don’t leave, Nora. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.] 1. The Ghostly Feed It was our third wedding anniversary. I had spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen, preparing a five-course meal of all his favorites. I waited from six in the evening until eleven at night. The duck confit was dry, the wine had breathed too long, and the candles had burned down to waxen stubs. The food was stone cold. My heart was following suit. When the lock finally clicked at the entryway, I reacted like a programmed robot, forcing a bright, welcoming smile onto my face as I stood up. “Killian, you’re home.” He brought the chill of the Chicago winter in with him, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and the outdoors. His handsome face was a mask of indifference. He gave a clipped “Mhm” in response, barely glancing at me as he kicked off his shoes and handed me his charcoal overcoat. “Things ran late at the firm,” he said. It was a minimalist explanation, a scrap of a gesture thrown to a starving dog. As I took the coat, the scent of his signature cedarwood cologne hit me, but beneath it, there was a sharp note of a floral perfume that wasn’t mine. A needle of pain pricked my chest. But I was used to the sting. I kept my voice light. “It’s okay, I know how busy you are. I kept some soup warm on the stove. Do you want a bowl?” “No. I’m not hungry.” He loosened his tie with a sharp tug and headed straight for the master bath. I stood there, clutching his coat, looking at the graveyard of our anniversary dinner. The smile I’d been holding up finally collapsed. The sound of the shower started—a cold, rhythmic drumming. I moved silently, scraping the expensive food into the trash and loading the dishwasher. Once the kitchen was spotless and sterile, I retreated to the bedroom. Killian was already out of the shower, propped up against the headboard, reviewing a stack of legal documents. The dim glow of the bedside lamp sharpened his features—the high cheekbones, the heavy lashes that cast long shadows over his eyes, making him look even more unreachable. I climbed into bed cautiously, settling on my side. Three years. We had lived in this bed for three years, and yet there was a wall of invisible ice between us that I could never break through. I was like a climber on a frozen peak, exhausted and frostbitten, trying to reach a summit that didn’t want to be conquered. I tossed and turned, my chest feeling tight and hollow. And that’s when I saw it. Right above Killian’s brow, hovering in the air. A line of white, semi-transparent text drifted slowly across his forehead. [Why is she still awake? God, she’s so annoying.] I froze. I blinked hard, certain that sleep deprivation or heartbreak had finally triggered a hallucination. Killian hadn’t opened his lips. His expression remained stoic, his eyes fixed on the merger agreement in his lap. But that text… it had a strange, resonant frequency. It was unmistakably his “voice.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Was I losing my mind? I summoned a final bit of courage and shifted toward him, resting my head tentatively on his shoulder. My voice was a soft, trembling whisper. “Killian… don’t stay up too late. It’s not good for you.” My nose almost brushed his arm. I waited for a touch, a hand in my hair, anything. Instead, a new line of text scrolled past. [Again? So clingy.] It was devastatingly clear. Each word felt like a glass shard driven into my skin. I went rigid. My blood felt like it was turning to slush in my veins. Annoying. Clingy. Every act of care, every moment of tenderness I had offered him over the last thousand days, boiled down to those two descriptors in his mind. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, I withdrew. I slid back to my side of the bed, pulled the duvet up to my chin, and closed my eyes. Tears leaked out, hot and shameful, soaking into the pillowcase. I had never felt more alone. 2. The Ash in My Heart I didn’t sleep a wink. When the pale gray light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Killian stirred. He sat up, and instinctively, I sat up too, ready to start the morning ritual of picking out his suit. I had to know. I had to verify if this absurd “gift” was real. I went to the walk-in closet and pulled a bespoke navy suit and a silk tie. As Killian walked in, I stepped forward, reaching out to straighten his collar and knot the tie. It was a habit I’d held sacred for three years. “You had a lot to drink last night, Killian. Make sure you eat a real breakfast today, or your stomach will be a mess by noon.” My fingers had just touched the silk of his tie when it appeared. [I get it. Stop nagging.] My hand gave a microscopic flinch. I lowered my gaze, hiding the sting in my eyes, and finished the knot. I could see his pulse thrumming in his neck. Another line appeared. [I can do this myself. Such a waste of time.] A waste of time. Everything I did for him was an unnecessary chore he had to endure. I finished the tie with slow, deliberate movements. Then, I took a long step back, creating a physical gap between us. “There,” I said softly, my voice sounding raspy even to my own ears. “You’re all set.” Killian shot me a glance, his brow furrowing slightly. [What’s with her today? She seems… off.] I saw it, but I offered nothing. I turned and walked out of the bedroom, going straight to the kitchen. I sat at the island and ate my own breakfast in total silence. Usually, I’d wait for him, watch him eat, and then walk him to the door with a “Drive safe” and “I’ll see you tonight.” Not today. I finished my toast, stood up, and headed for the stairs. Killian was coming down the hallway and paused. [She’s not going to walk me out?] He was waiting for the routine. He was waiting for his servant to perform. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I didn’t look up. “I have things to do,” I said tonelessly. “Have a good day.” Killian lingered for a long time. I could feel his heavy, analytical gaze weighing on me. The text above his head flickered like a dying television screen—static and lines—but ultimately, it stayed blank. A few seconds later, I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing. The silence that followed was deafening. I collapsed into a kitchen chair, my strength deserting me. The tears came then, heavy and hot. I wasn’t a mountain climber. I was a moth that had mistaken a block of ice for a flame. I had spent three years trying to melt him, only to realize he was a glacier that would never move for me. I cried until my eyes were raw. Then, I wiped my face, stood up, and went to the master suite. As I passed Killian’s pillow, I caught that scent of cedar again. Once, it had been my comfort; now, it felt like a gag. I grabbed my pillow and a thin throw blanket. I walked down the hall to the small, neglected guest room at the very end of the corridor. I stepped inside and shut the door with a decisive click. From this day on, this was my space. I was closing the door on three years of unrequited hope. 3. The Cracks in the Ice At ten o’clock that evening, the front door opened. Killian stepped inside, his brow instantly tightening. Usually, at this hour, the living room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a lamp. I would be curled on the sofa with a book, waiting for him. The moment he’d enter, I’d be on my feet, greeting him like a grateful pet. Tonight, the house was a tomb. Pitch black. Cold. Killian flicked on the light. The harsh LED glare revealed an empty room. For the first time, a flicker of something—agitation? emptiness?—crossed his face. [Where is she? Asleep already?] He tossed his tie onto the sofa, his movements lacking their usual precision. He walked toward the master bedroom and pushed the door open. Empty. The bed was made with military precision, his lone pillow sitting in the center of the vast mattress. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He turned on the light, staring at the side of the bed where my things used to be. The nightstand was bare. The space was hollow. Just then, he heard a faint sound from the hallway. He spun around. I was standing there in my silk pajamas, holding a glass of water, emerging from the guest room. Our eyes met. Killian’s gaze was dark, filled with a simmering, confused irritation. I looked at him the way one looks at a stranger on a train—polite, distant, indifferent. I gave him a small, curt nod of acknowledgment and turned to go back into the guest room. That distance—that sudden, chilling politeness—was the spark that lit a fire in him. “Why are you sleeping in there?” The question burst out of him, colder than usual, laced with an authority he used in boardrooms. I stopped and turned back, my expression flat. “I thought you were tired of me being ‘annoying’ and ‘clingy.’ I thought I was ‘disturbing your sleep.’” My voice was quiet, but the words hit him like a physical blow. “This way, you get your peace,” I added. “And I get a decent night’s rest.” Killian went rigid. His pupils contracted. The text above his head began to flicker with a frantic, jagged energy. [Did she hear me?] [Impossible… how could she know?] [Is this a tantrum? Because of the anniversary?] I watched the chaos scrolling above his eyes and felt a strange, hollow sense of peace. So, he could feel panic. I didn’t want to give him another syllable. I turned to the door. “Come back here!” he barked. He moved fast, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. His grip was bruisingly tight. “Explain yourself. Who told you I thought you were annoying?” He looked like he wanted to reach into my head and pull out my thoughts. I didn’t struggle against his grip, though it hurt. I just looked him in the eye, my voice steady. “Killian, is this really the game we’re playing?” I asked. “You know exactly what you think of me. Don’t act surprised now that I’ve finally agreed with you.” I wrenched my arm back. He was so stunned that his grip loosened, and he actually stumbled a half-step. In the three years of our marriage, I had never raised my voice. I had never pulled away. I was the girl who lived for his crumbs. [What is she doing? Since when does she have this kind of nerve?] [It’s just a missed anniversary. She’s overreacting.] He was still trying to fit me into his narrow, arrogant logic. I didn’t bother reading the rest. I stepped into the guest room and locked the door. Killian stood in the hallway for a long time. I heard a muffled thud—him kicking the wall in a rare display of temper—and then the violent slam of the master bedroom door. From that day on, I became exactly what he had seemingly wanted. I was a ghost. I didn’t wait for him. I didn’t text him. I didn’t ask if he’d eaten or if he’d slept. We lived under the same roof like two strangers in a forced co-habitation. At first, his text was defensive and mocking. [Fine. Let’s see how long she can keep this up.] [This ‘playing hard to get’ act is pathetic.] But after three days, the script changed. During his late meetings, I saw (via the shared location on my phone) that he was checking his messages constantly. [She hasn’t texted once today.] At dinner, he’d stare at the cold takeout his assistant ordered. [Where’s the home-cooked food?] Late at night, he’d wander the quiet house. [Is she actually done?] [Damn it, why won’t she just break first?] I watched his rising agitation and felt no joy, only a profound, weary sadness. It took me leaving him alone for him to finally notice I was there. 4. Reclaiming the Canvas On Saturday, I finally slept in. By the time I woke up, Killian was already gone—likely to the office to bury himself in spreadsheets. Good. The silence was a relief. I opened the door to the long-neglected storage room at the end of the hall. It was filled with my old life: easels, canvases, and boxes of paints from my university days. There was a fine layer of dust on my favorite palette. I reached out, tracing the edge, and felt a familiar spark in my chest. Once, this was my whole world. Before Killian, I had been an artist with a soul. I’d had offers from galleries, invitations to study in Paris. I had traded all of that to be the perfect, silent wife to a man who didn’t even like me. It was a joke. A tragedy. I began hauling the equipment out, cleaning the brushes, and setting everything up in the guest room. As the sunlight streamed in, hitting the blank canvas, I felt the old Nora—the one who breathed color and light—shuffling back to life. I dug out my old contacts and found a name: Adrian Thorne. No, not Thorne. Adrian Vance. Wait, Vance is banned. Adrian Sterling. No, Sterling is banned. Adrian Brooks. No, Brooks is banned. I’ll go with Adrian Thorne. Wait—Thorne is banned too. Deep breath. Let’s call him Adrian Hale. Wait, Hayes is banned. Let’s go with Adrian Lockwood. Adrian was my mentor in college. He owned a prestigious gallery in the city now. Back then, he had been my biggest champion, begging me to sign with him. I’d walked away from him to marry Killian. I hesitated, then dialed. Adrian’s voice was as warm as I remembered. “Nora? Is that really you? I thought you’d disappeared into the clouds of high society.” “I’m still here, Adrian,” I said, a small smile playing on my lips. “I’ve just… been away from my brushes for too long.” “Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year!” he said, his excitement palpable. “I’m putting together a ‘New Voices’ exhibition for next month, and it felt like a crime not to have your work. Nora, are you ready to come back to us?” My heart gave a joyous leap.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427400”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband, Brandon, was meticulously peeling an apple by my bedside while I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body being torn apart by the rhythmic, agonizing waves of labor. My water had broken an hour ago, and the world was a blur of sterile white lights and the sharp tang of antiseptic. A nurse hurried in during a brief reprieve between contractions, her face tight with urgency. She pressed a stack of consent forms toward Brandon, urging him to sign so they could move me into the delivery suite. Brandon didn’t reach for the pen. Instead, he sliced a perfect crescent of apple and held it to my lips, his other hand reaching out to tenderly wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. “Deep breaths, Callie,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm. I reached for his hand, my fingers trembling, seeking any anchor in the storm of pain. He squeezed back, his touch firm and grounding. Then, with a practiced smoothness that felt discordant with the chaos of the room, he reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a document. It wasn’t a birth plan. It was a formal waiver of marital assets. “Honey, childbirth is high-risk,” he said, his eyes searching mine with a terrifyingly calm intensity. “I need you to do this for us. To prove that you’re with me for love, not just for the money or the estate. Just sign this, and I’ll have the doctor administer the epidural immediately. Okay?” 1 The nurse stood by the door, the surgical consent forms dangling from her hand. She started to say something, then closed her mouth, her eyes darting between the two of us. I looked down at the paper in Brandon’s hand. It was crisp, professional, bearing the embossed seal of a top-tier law firm. This wasn’t a sudden thought; this was a calculated move. He had been sitting on this, waiting for the one moment where I was too broken to fight back. Another contraction hit—a white-hot blade of pain that started in my lower back and radiated through my entire core. I arched off the bed, my fingernails digging into my palms so hard I drew blood. Sweat poured down my face, a single drop landing on the cover sheet of the waiver. Brandon quickly pulled the paper away, dabbing the moisture off with a tissue as if the ink were more precious than my comfort. “Don’t get worked up, Callie,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Just sign this, and I’ll call the anesthesiologist right now. The pain will go away. You’ll be at peace.” “Brandon,” I wheezed through gritted teeth. “Have you lost your mind?” He didn’t answer. Instead, the door swung open and his mother, Martha, strode in. She was carrying a thermos of bone broth, her eyes immediately scanning my swollen belly before settling on her son. She patted Brandon’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that made my skin crawl. “Is it done?” she asked. I heard her clearly. Brandon shook his head. Martha sighed and sat on the edge of my bed. She took my hand in hers; her skin felt like dry parchment. “Callie, look at me,” she said, her voice dripping with a forced, maternal patience. “I know it hurts. But do this for Brandon. Give him some peace of mind. Every woman goes through this—the pain, the drama—it’s just how it is. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.” She squeezed my hand, a thin smile stretching across her face. “This is just a formality. A gesture of good faith to show you didn’t marry into this family for the portfolio. If you’re planning on a long, happy life with my son, what does a piece of paper matter? It’ll just be a relic of the past one day.” I looked from the mother to the son. Brandon stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression a mask of manufactured conflict. I forced myself to read the first few lines of the document. Article 1: Caroline Mitch hereby voluntarily waives all claims to the property located at 412 West End Avenue, Unit 18B, acknowledging it as the sole property of Brandon Mitch. Article 2: The undersigned voluntarily waives any claim to equity or future dividends in Mitch Tech Solutions. Article 3: In the event of a dissolution of marriage, the undersigned agrees to a ‘clean break’ settlement, waiving all rights to communal assets acquired during the marriage. My hands began to shake—not from the pain, but from a cold, hard fury. “Brandon,” I said, looking up at him. “My parents gave us a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the down payment on that condo. They dipped into their retirement for that.” “It was a gift to us,” he replied instantly, his tone clipped. “But the deed is in my name. It makes sense to keep it clean.” “And the seed money for your company—” “That was a loan, Callie. I’ve told you, I’ll pay your parents back with interest. It wasn’t an equity investment.” He had an answer for everything. He had rehearsed this. The nurse stepped back in, glancing at the fetal monitor. Her face went pale. “Mr. Mitch, the patient is at six centimeters. The baby’s heart rate is fluctuating. We need a decision on the epidural and the intervention plan now. If we wait much longer—” “We understand,” Brandon interrupted, his gaze never leaving mine. “Callie, you heard her. Time is running out.” He pulled out the fountain pen I had bought him for our first anniversary—the one he said he’d only use for ‘important milestones.’ He pressed it into my hand. The cold metal felt like an icicle against my skin. Brandon knelt so he was at eye level with me, his face a picture of fabricated heartbreak. “I’m not trying to hurt you, honey. But think about it. Childbirth is unpredictable. If something goes wrong, the last thing I want is a legal battle over the estate. This protects us. It protects the baby’s future. It keeps things simple.” He reached out, brushing a damp lock of hair from my forehead. “I’m doing this for you, Callie. For our family.” Martha nodded fervently. “He’s right, dear. Brandon is just looking out for everyone.” I had looked at this man’s face every day for five years. I remembered him bringing me coffee in bed, the way he cried at our wedding, the way he promised to protect me. And now, he was kneeling by my hospital bed, using my life and the life of our unborn son as a bargaining chip. A contraction more violent than the rest ripped through me. I curled into a ball, a low, guttural moan escaping my lips. Brandon gripped my hand, guiding the pen toward the signature line. “Sign it and the pain stops, Callie,” he whispered. “Sign it, and I’ll get the doctor.” I gripped the pen, my fingers slick with sweat. Martha’s hand came down on top of mine, pressing. “Just sign it, Callie. Don’t keep the baby waiting.” The numbers on the fetal monitor began to blink rapidly. 2 I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and hurled the pen across the room. It clattered against the far wall and rolled to a stop at the base of a medical cart. “Brandon, what the hell are you actually doing?” His face hardened instantly. The mask of ‘concerned husband’ slipped, revealing a flicker of raw irritation. He stood up, walked over to retrieve the pen, blew a speck of dust off the nib, and brought it back to the bedside. “Callie, don’t be dramatic. I told you, it’s not a big deal. Talking about money is so gauche between a husband and wife, but you’re making it an issue. If you sign, we go back to being a happy family. If you don’t…” He paused, his voice turning icy. “Well, it makes it look like you’ve been calculating this whole time.” “I’ve been calculating? You’re the one holding my medical care hostage!” “See? This is why I didn’t want to bring it up last week,” he said, folding his arms. He looked genuinely offended. “You’re emotional. I’ve been a perfect husband for three years, and you’re treating me like a villain. It’s deeply hurtful, Callie.” I was literally leaking amniotic fluid and dying of pain, and he was the one who was ‘hurt.’ “You’re hurt?” My voice was a raspy shadow of itself. “You’re forcing a legal contract on me while I’m in active labor, and you’re the one who’s hurt?” “I’m not forcing anything,” he corrected. “I’m negotiating. I wanted to do this earlier, but you were so moody during the third trimester that I figured we’d just handle it today. It’s efficient.” “Efficient?” “The lawyers were pushing for it. They said it’s best to have everything settled before the birth certificate is filed. It’s common practice for men in my position.” He was blaming the lawyers now. The nurse returned for the third time, her patience gone. “Look, if we don’t do the epidural in the next ten minutes, the window is closed. Are you signing the consent forms or not?” Brandon turned to her, his face instantly shifting back into a mask of frantic worry. “Nurse, I’m so sorry. My wife is just… she’s very anxious. I’m trying to calm her down. Give us two minutes? I’ll have the forms signed right away.” He took the hospital’s consent forms from her, but he didn’t sign them. He just held them. The nurse looked at me, then at him, and walked out, sensing a tension she wasn’t paid enough to resolve. As soon as the door clicked shut, Brandon’s ‘anxiety’ vanished. He shoved the pen back into my hand. “Sign.” His voice was a whip. No more negotiation. Just a command. Suddenly, the door burst open and my best friend, Joyce, flew into the room. Her hair was a mess, her coat half-off. She had clearly raced from the airport. She took one look at the document in Brandon’s hand and her eyes turned murderous. She lunged for the paper. “Brandon, you absolute piece of shit!” she screamed. “You’re really doing this? Now? While she’s in labor? Are you even human?” Martha stepped in her way, a wall of cold indignation. “This is family business, Joyce. You’re an outsider—” “Outsider?” Joyce laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. “I’ve known her since we were five! Her parents put up the money for your house, and you’re trying to screw her out of it while she’s on a delivery table? You’re a monster!” “Joyce,” I whispered, reaching for her arm. I didn’t want her to waste her breath. I turned my head to look at Brandon. “Fine. Let’s say I don’t sign. What’s the plan, Brandon? How are we going to afford the nursery, the nanny, the private school you’ve been bragging about? You make two hundred grand a year, but you send seventy percent of it to your mother’s ‘investment fund.’ You barely have five grand in your checking account.” Brandon’s eyes flickered. “And that fifty thousand from my parents for your startup? You said it was a loan. Fine. Where’s the interest? It’s been three years. Your company cleared four million in revenue last year, and you’re telling me you have nothing?” He stayed silent. Martha chimed in, “Callie, dear, don’t be so bean-counting. We’re a family—” “A family?” I pointed at the waiver. “Does a family need this?” Martha went silent. I stared at Brandon. “And that line about ‘unforeseen circumstances’? You said it would be messy if something happened to me. Are you planning for something to happen to me, Brandon?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” His face flushed. “Then why does this have to be signed before I go into that theater?” He had no answer. After a few beats, his voice softened again, returning to that terrifying, gentle lilt. “Callie, you’re overthinking. I was up all night, worrying about you and the baby. I just want everything organized so we can focus on being parents—” “Then add your fifty-thousand-dollar pre-marital savings account to the waiver,” I said. He froze. “What?” “Sign a mutual waiver. You waive yours, I waive mine. Equal footing. If it’s just a formality, it shouldn’t matter, right?” He stared at me, his jaw tight. Martha panicked. “Callie, that’s Brandon’s hard-earned money, you can’t—” “Mom,” Brandon said, holding up a hand. He looked at me, his eyes dark. “We can discuss that later. Sign this now. We can talk about the rest after the baby is out.” “Then I’ll sign this after the baby is out.” “No.” His tone was final. “It has to be now.” 3 Brandon stood over the bed, clutching the waiver like a trophy. He looked down at me from a great height, his shadow swallowing the light from the hospital window. “Wake up, Callie,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “Look at your situation. Your water is gone. You’re fully effaced. You’re in pain. Do you really think you can afford to play chicken with me right now?” “Are you threatening me?” “I’m stating facts.” He enunciated every word. “If you don’t sign this, I don’t sign the surgical consent. It’s your choice.” Joyce erupted. “Brandon, you sick bastard! That’s your child! You’re going to let your wife and son die in this room for a condo?” He ignored her, his eyes locked on mine. I looked at him, searching for a trace of the man I had loved. He wasn’t there. For three years, I had been living with a stranger who had been playing a very long, very patient game. The man who bought me flowers and held me when I cried was just a mask. This was the real Brandon Mitch: a man who viewed his wife’s life as a line item in a budget. “My parents paid for the down payment,” I said, my voice shaking. “In my name.” “I gave you the startup capital.” “A loan. Not equity.” “I worked until I was eight months pregnant, and every cent I made went into your mother’s account for ‘household expenses.’” “That was for the family, Callie. Not an investment.” He was surgical. He felt no guilt because, in his mind, he was simply reclaiming what was ‘rightfully’ his. I let out a jagged, breathless laugh. “One last question, Brandon. If I start hemorrhaging on that table, are you going to sign the consent form then?” His lip twitched. “Don’t be dramatic—” “Answer me.” He said nothing. Joyce was sobbing now, clutching my hand. “Callie, forget him. I’m going to find the doctor, I’m going to—” “Stay,” I said, stopping her. Brandon’s face was a mask of cold resolve. He was betting everything on the fact that I wouldn’t risk the baby. And he was right. I couldn’t. The door burst open. A midwife ran in, her face etched with panic. “We have a fetal heart rate deceleration! There’s thick meconium in the fluid. We need an emergency C-section now! Where are the consents? We need a signature!” Martha grabbed Brandon’s arm, her eyes wide. “Brandon—” Brandon didn’t move. He turned to the midwife, and in a terrifying display of acting, his eyes welled with tears. He sounded choked with emotion. “Nurse, I’m so sorry. My wife… she’s suffering from severe prenatal depression. She’s been unstable for weeks. She’s refusing to go into surgery unless I agree to certain… personal demands. I’ve been trying to talk her down for hours. She’s not thinking clearly.” The midwife looked at me. I tried to speak, but a contraction seized me, doubling me over. I could only gasp for air, my fingers clawing at the sheets. “Callie, listen to me,” the midwife said, rushing to my side. “The baby is in distress. Whatever is going on between you two, we have to go now. Saving you and the baby is the only priority. We can settle the rest later, okay?” She thought I was the problem. Brandon stood there, looking like the picture of a haggard, long-suffering husband. “Mr. Mitch, sign the forms. We can’t wait!” Brandon took the pen, but he didn’t touch the paper. He looked at me, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. The message was clear: Sign my paper, and I’ll sign yours. “Nurse,” he said, his voice raspy. “Give me two minutes alone with her. Just two minutes. I promise I’ll get her to cooperate.” The midwife hesitated, then nodded and ran out to prep the OR. Martha stood up and shoved Joyce toward the door. “You stay right here,” Martha warned Joyce, “so you can’t say we didn’t try to help her.” Martha shut the door behind her. It was just the three of us. Brandon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his dry eyes. He pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing his legs casually. “Are we done with the theatrics?” 4 He sat there, perfectly composed. The ‘distraught husband’ persona had been discarded the second the door closed. Joyce was shaking in the corner, her fists clenched. I lay on the bed, the fury inside me finally eclipsing the physical pain. “Brandon,” I whispered. “I’m not signing it.” He tilted his head. “Excuse me?” “I said I’m not signing. We’re getting a divorce, and we’re going to split everything down the middle according to the law. You won’t get a cent more than you’re entitled to.” He stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Callie,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you realize where you are?” I didn’t answer. “The surgical consent requires a family signature. Your father is five hundred miles away. Your mother is gone. I am your legal next of kin. I am your healthcare proxy.” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of the apple he’d just eaten. “You don’t sign this, I don’t sign that. You want to try and push this baby out on your own? Go ahead. See how that works out for you.” Joyce lunged forward. “You’re insane! That’s your son! You’d let your own son die?” “Shut up,” he snapped, not even looking at her. “This is between a husband and a wife.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the armrests. “And Callie, before you keep dreaming about divorce… think about the fallout. Your father’s heart isn’t great. He just had that stent put in last year. If you die in this hospital because you were ‘uncooperative,’ do you think he’ll survive the grief?” He sounded almost concerned. It was nauseating. “Besides,” he continued, “everyone out there—the nurses, the doctors—they’ve seen the ‘depressed, unstable’ wife and the ‘devoted’ husband. If things go south, who do you think they’re going to believe? My reputation is spotless. Yours? You’re just a woman who had a breakdown in the delivery room.” I dug my nails into my palms. “You’re threatening my life, Brandon.” “I’m helping you see the big picture,” he corrected. “Sign now, we have the baby, and we go back to being the perfect couple. You don’t sign…” He trailed off. “I can’t guarantee what happens next.” Joyce pulled out her phone, her hands shaking as she tried to dial 911. Brandon didn’t even flinch. “Go ahead, call them. When the police get here, what will they see? A woman in a psychiatric crisis refusing life-saving surgery, and a husband crying his eyes out. Who do you think the cops listen to in a medical emergency?” Joyce froze. I looked at Brandon. In the room next door, I heard the faint, muffled cry of a newborn. I was trapped in a nightmare, bartering my life with the man who was supposed to cherish it. “So,” I said, my voice trembling. “I have no choice?” Brandon stood up and leaned over me, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “Callie,” he murmured, offering the pen. “Just sign. The pain goes away, and we stay a family. Three of us. Together.” He was so sure of himself. He knew I wouldn’t gamble with my son’s life. And he was right. I couldn’t. I took the pen. Joyce screamed, “Callie! No! Don’t do it!” I didn’t look at her. I looked straight into Brandon’s eyes. Three years ago, those eyes were full of a light I thought was love. Now, they were just empty, greedy pits. “I’ll sign,” I said. A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face. As the nib of the pen touched the paper, he leaned down and whispered into my ear. “Oh, and Callie? One more thing I forgot to mention.” I froze. “I picked up your labs last month. You have gestational hypertension. Your risk of an amniotic fluid embolism or a postpartum hemorrhage is three times higher than average.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “So, I took out a policy on you last week. A three-million-dollar accidental death rider. I’m the sole beneficiary.” He pulled back to look me in the eye. “You live, and I get the assets. You die…” He looked at the waiver, then back at me, smiling. “I get the three million. Either way, Callie, I win.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427397”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

As a succubus with a crippling, pathological fear of men, I managed to go three hundred years without a single drop of life force. It was a ridiculous way to go. Because of this bizarre phobia, any time a male creature got within breathing distance, I’d spiral into a panic attack so severe I eventually just… died. Starved to death. When I reached the Underworld, I was seeing green from hunger. I marched straight up to the King of Shadows and made a desperate plea. My demand was simple: “I’m starving. Feed me. I need primal energy—but I absolutely, under no circumstances, want a man!” The King of Shadows considered this for a moment, then took his heavy quill and signed a decree. “Consider it done,” he said with a cryptic smile. When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t in the Underworld anymore. I was standing in a cold, opulent hall. Standing directly in front of me was a man in dark, blood-red robes embroidered with serpents. He looked lethal, his eyes like chips of flint. He was a High Inquisitor—a man who had been “unmanned” to serve the crown. A eunuch. He hooked a finger under my chin, his voice dripping with icy impatience. “Why the tears? Is serving as my consort truly such a death sentence?” The girls beside me were shaking like leaves, whispering, “No, My Lord! We wouldn’t dare!” But me? I was nearly hysterical with joy. A Lord Inquisitor! A man who wasn’t technically a man! This was the loophole of a lifetime. I was finally going to eat. To the absolute horror of everyone in the room, I didn’t recoil. Instead, I lunged forward like a drowning person catching a life raft and wrapped myself around him. I grabbed his face, pressed my mouth against his thin, cold lips, and let out an ecstatic muffled shout: “I love this! I absolutely love this!” … Click. A cold, iron-strong hand clamped around my throat. One squeeze, and he could snap my neck like a dry twig. But I didn’t feel a flicker of fear. In fact, I wanted to laugh. Three centuries of “Androphobia” had made me hyperventilate if a man got within ten feet. Touching one usually meant instant cardiac arrest. But this? This was my golden ticket. My heavenly buffet. God bless the Bureau. God bless the Lord Inquisitor! I forced my eyes open, meeting his dark, predatory gaze. “My Lord…” I wheezed out, the words struggling past my constricted windpipe. “The way you’re choking me… it feels amazing.” A collective gasp echoed through the hall. The surrounding guards looked like they were having strokes. The pressure on my neck faltered. For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Alaric’s pale, aristocratic face. Since he’d taken command of the Iron Bureau, he had built a reputation on being a butcher. People didn’t even dare to look him in the eye, let alone treat him like a climbing frame. He practiced a legendary, forbidden style of combat—The Solar Core—which filled his body with a volatile, blistering heat. To a normal person, his touch would feel like being branded. But I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t burning; I was feasting. I was actively draining the agonizing pressure of the energy built up inside him. Alaric’s eyes flashed with a sudden, murderous intent. He threw me off him, hurling me toward one of the massive stone pillars in the hall. I hit the pillar hard. My ribs groaned, and the world spun. I coughed up a splash of bright crimson blood. It hurt like hell, but I was vibrating with excitement. That brief moment of contact had given me enough energy to survive for three days. I wiped the blood from my lip and stood up, swaying on my feet. “Guards,” Alaric said, taking a silk handkerchief from an attendant to wipe the fingers I had touched. His voice was a low, dangerous purr. “Take this delusional thing away. Skin her and stuff her with straw.” Two guards stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders. My heart sank. My “Buffet” had a bit of a temper. This was going to be harder than I thought. But I’d finally found a source of food that didn’t make me vomit with fear; I wasn’t letting go, even if it killed me. “Wait!” I wrenched myself free and dropped to my knees. “Wait! My Lord, you can’t kill me. If I die, you’ll spend the rest of your life suffering through that bone-deep torture.” Alaric didn’t even look back. He tossed the tainted handkerchief into a nearby brazier, where it vanished in a puff of flame. The guards stepped closer, their swords half-drawn. I stared at his retreating back and screamed, “Every night at midnight, your chest feels like it’s being filled with molten lead, doesn’t it? You feel like you’re going to explode from the inside out!” Alaric froze. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop to sub-zero. The guards dropped to their knees, terrified to even breathe. I’d won the bet. Pure solar energy is a miracle for power, but if it has nowhere to go, it turns into a slow-acting poison. His aura was so thick it was practically screaming. There was no way he wasn’t suffering. Alaric turned around slowly. His crimson robes swirled in the dim light like a pool of blood. He walked back to me, his eyes searching, deep and terrifyingly intelligent. “Who sent you?” He leaned down, pinching my jaw again. This time he wasn’t trying to break me, but the intensity of his gaze made my skin crawl. “No one sent me,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’m just a poor, starving soul who happens to be the only cure for what ails you.” Alaric stared at me for a long time. Just when I thought he was going to snap and finish the job, he laughed. It was a cold, dry sound, like dead leaves skittering over a grave. “Fine,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll give you a chance to prove your worth.” “Take her to the Citadel.” I was thrown into a cell. It was clean enough—no torture devices, just a hard wooden cot. Alaric didn’t interrogate me immediately. He left me there to rot for three days. No food. No water. The hunger of a succubus isn’t like a human stomach ache; it’s a soul-tearing agony. It feels like your very essence is being shredded from the inside. By the third day, I was curled in a fetal position, my prison clothes soaked in cold sweat. The tiny bit of energy I’d sucked out of him earlier was a drop of water in an ocean of three hundred years of starvation. Just as I felt my consciousness slipping, the heavy iron door creaked open. A tall, elegant figure stepped in. Alaric had changed into dark, casual robes. He was idly thumbing a string of sandalwood beads, looking like a monk at prayer—if you ignored the several mangled corpses being dragged out of the hallway behind him. “I heard you were starving,” he said, walking to the bed. He nudged my leg with the toe of his boot. I didn’t even have the strength to look up. Driven by pure instinct, I lunged forward and hugged his boot. “My Lord… please… hungry…” Even through the leather of his boot, I could smell the radiant, blistering heat of his energy. I let out a soft, involuntary moan of relief. Alaric stiffened. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable. He didn’t kick me away. Instead, he let me press my face against his leg. “What kind of monster are you, exactly?” he asked, his voice sounding oddly raspy. “I’m your antidote,” I whispered, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes. “And I’m still hungry.” Alaric suddenly crouched down, grabbing a handful of my hair to force my head back. “Antidote?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You look like a soul-sucking demon to me.” He let go and stood up. “Guards!” Two Inquisitors entered immediately. “Take her to the interrogation room.” Panic flared in my chest. What now? I’d barely had a snack, and he was already turning on me? They dragged me into a room where a man was strapped to a chair, covered in blood. Judging by his clothes, he was some disgraced official. Alaric walked over, pulled a glowing red branding iron from a brazier, and pressed it into the man’s chest. The smell of burnt flesh filled the room. The man screamed like a stuck pig. Alaric didn’t blink. He turned to me. “You said you were hungry? Go on. Feed on him.” My pupils shrunk. The man was a bloody mess, but he was a man. A real, biological male. The overwhelming scent of male aggression and blood hit me like a physical blow. My stomach did a somersault. My phobia roared to life. My breath hitched into a spasm. My heart rate spiked into the red zone. The room started to spin. “No…” I backed away, my voice trembling. “I can’t… I won’t…” Alaric narrowed his eyes. “What? Too dirty for your refined palate?” He sneered. “I have plenty of men in the Citadel. We can keep going until you find one you like.” He signaled with his hand, and a dozen hulking guards surrounded me. The concentrated “maleness” of the room was too much. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, making a wet, choking sound in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. The terror was physiological, bypassing my brain and going straight to my nerves. Driven by a desperate need for safety, I crawled toward the only person who felt “safe”—the man who wasn’t a man. Under the shocked stares of the guards, I scrambled to Alaric and gripped his leg like a lifeline. “Save me…” I buried my face in the hem of his robe, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want them… I only want you…” Alaric looked down at me. He saw my face, white as a sheet. He saw the way my entire body was vibrating with terror. And then, he smiled. It was a wicked, dark smile, full of a twisted kind of satisfaction. “I see,” he whispered. He leaned down, his thumb roughly brushing a tear from my cheek. “You’re terrified of men.” He leaned closer, his warm breath fanning across my ear. “Then why aren’t you afraid of me?” That was a lethal question. I couldn’t exactly tell him, “Because you’re a eunuch and you don’t have the parts that trigger my trauma.” If I said that, I’d be dead before I could blink. My brain kicked into overdrive, searching for a lie he’d believe. “Because… because you’re beautiful,” I stammered, trying to make my eyes look as sincere as possible. “The others are all so… ugly. They hurt my eyes.” The smile vanished. Alaric’s face turned to stone. “You think I’m a fool?” He stood up abruptly, shaking me off. “Since you won’t tell the truth, perhaps the Black Cells will help you find your voice.” He turned to leave. The Black Cells? That was the deepest pit of the Citadel. It was filled with the most violent, depraved criminals in the empire. I wouldn’t last ten minutes before my heart gave out from sheer terror. “My Lord!” I scrambled after him, grabbing his hem again. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell the truth!” Alaric stopped, looking down at me from his towering height. “Speak.” I swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s your aura. It’s special.” I looked up at him, projecting pure vulnerability. “I have a… condition. A curse. I need solar energy to survive. I need you, and My Lord… you need me.” I lowered my voice. “The other night, after I touched you… the pain didn’t come at midnight, did it?” Alaric stared at me for an eternity. Finally, he let out a sharp huff. “I’ll let you live. For now.” He moved me into the side wing of his private quarters, barely twenty paces from his bedroom. On the first night, I stood outside his study door with a blanket wrapped around me. “My Lord,” I whispered through the crack. “The side wing is haunted. I’m scared.” Alaric didn’t even look up from his scrolls. “Go back to bed.” I didn’t go back. I curled up against the doorframe, wrapped in my blanket, and fell asleep basking in the solar heat radiating from the room. There was a long silence from inside. Finally, he ordered the servants to put a small cot in the corner of his bedroom. The next morning, he almost tripped over me. He looked down at me for a long time, then ordered a small daybed to be placed in his study as well. By the third day, while he was reviewing execution orders, I was lounging on the daybed, watching him. Eventually, I migrated to the floor by his feet, resting my head on his knee and quietly sipping on his overflowing energy. His brush hovered over the paper. “Are you a dog?” “Woof.” He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t push me away. After a moment, his hand came up and rested on my head, his fingers idly brushing through my hair. I looked up and beamed at him. “You’re so good to me, My Lord.” His ears turned a faint shade of pink, and he looked away. “You’re noisy.” I giggled internally. My long-term meal ticket was officially secured. Life became a comfortable routine of being constantly full. The servants in the manor started to like me, mostly because Alaric’s legendary temper had cooled significantly since I arrived. The only person who hated me was Morgan, the female captain of his guard. Every time she saw me, her eyes looked like they were dripping venom. Then, Alaric had to leave the city on official business. He was gone for five days. I was starving. Not for food—real food was plenty—but for him. I hugged his pillow, inhaling deeply. The scent was fading. The energy was gone. Finally, the day of the Summer Festival arrived. “Miss,” Morgan said, entering my room with an uncharacteristically polite bow. “The Lord Inquisitor sent word. He’s waiting for you at the Clear Wave alley in the south of the city. He wants to spend the festival with you.” I practically bounced off the bed. “Really?” “He said to dress appropriately,” Morgan added. “He has a gift for you.” Alaric? The man who was as cold as a frostbitten iron gate? Taking me out for a romantic festival date? It sounded too good to be true, but then again, maybe he was feeling the “hunger” for his antidote as much as I was. I spent an hour getting ready. The girl in the mirror looked radiant—eyes bright, skin glowing. Satisfied, I headed to the rendezvous. I pushed open the door to the private room. No Alaric. I frowned. He was late? Then, the door clicked shut behind me. “You finally arrived.” It wasn’t Alaric’s voice. Panic hit me like a physical wave. My stomach churned, and my legs went weak. I backed away, stumbling onto the bed. “Who are you?” my voice shook. “My name is Silas,” the man said, stepping into the light. “Don’t you remember? You saw me at the market and fell for me instantly. You asked me to meet you here tonight…” “That’s a lie!” I tried to run, but the phobia had me pinned. I couldn’t move. Silas approached me, one slow step at a time. “Don’t come closer!” I shrieked, curling into a ball on the bed, shaking violently. At that moment, the door was kicked open with a deafening crash. Alaric stood there, his face a mask of pure, murderous rage. Morgan was right behind him, her expression a mix of mock horror and triumph. “See, My Lord?” Morgan cried. “I told you! The moment you’re gone, she’s meeting her secret lover!” The scene looked damning: spilled wine, a half-closed bed curtain, a well-dressed man, and me, dressed up and trembling on the bed. “My Lord, let me explain,” Silas suddenly blurted out, dropping to his knees. “This girl invited me here. She said she was lonely in your house and begged me to take her away. I didn’t want to, but she threatened me!” “You’re lying!” I screamed. Silas pulled a letter from his sleeve. “This is the note she sent me. Her own handwriting.” I suddenly remembered a letter I’d seen on my vanity. I reached into my sleeve. Empty. The letter Morgan had “delivered” from Alaric was gone. It was a setup. Alaric took the letter. His expression went from ice to something far more dangerous. “My Lord,” I said, forced myself to sit up. “I didn’t write that. I…” Before I could finish, his hand was around my throat, lifting me off the bed. His voice was terrifyingly calm. “It seems you’ve been having quite a lot of fun while I was away, Nora.” “No… it’s not… what you think…” I gasped. Between the phobia of the man in the corner and Alaric’s grip, I was losing consciousness. “Did you betray me too?” he whispered, his grip tightening. I heard a faint creak in my neck. The world started to go black. In a last, desperate effort, I reached into my bodice and shoved something into his hand.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427396”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel