I carried the Cartier ring box to Chloe’s place. My friend for ten years. In my haste,I had grabbed my fiancéJulian’s phone. I stepped into her Upper East Side apartment. A second later,the phone connected to her WiFi. I froze. Julian had never mentioned coming here. But the password was saved on his phone. Chloe’s eyes flickered to the phone in my hand. A triumphant smirk touched her lips. “Stop guessing,Ella.For the past three years,every time he said he was flying to Tokyo or London,he was here.In my bed.” I clutched the cold velvet box. Ten years of my life,a planned lie. She pulledan ultrasound scan from her Hermès bag and waved it in my face. “Eight weeks,”she said. “You can still marry Julian.My baby’s going to need a full-time nanny anyway.” The apartment’s smart lock clicked. Julian walked in,carrying takeout from a gourmet restaurant. Our eyes met. The smile on his face vanished. I quietly slipped the ring box back into my pocket. From that moment on,Chloe was out of my life. So was Julian Thorne. … “What are you doing with my phone?” Julian took off his Ferragamo shoes. He placed the takeout on the entryway console. His gaze swept from the report in Chloe’s hand to me. After a brief shock,he loosened his tie. He went to Chloe and wrapped his arms around her. “Well,you’ve seen it.No need to hide it.” He looked up at me,his voice calm. “The report is real.She’s carrying my child.The Thorne Group and my estate require an heir.” I clenched the ring box in my pocket. “So?”My voice was barely a whisper. Julian frowned,displeased with my response. “What’s with the attitude?I haven’t even called you out for invading my privacy and taking my phone.” He took a sip of Perrier from the table. He said it like it was nothing. “The doctors have made their assessment.After two miscarriages,another pregnancy would be too high-risk for you.” “I need an heir.Chloe is helping us.After the child is born,you—the future Mrs.Thorne—will raise it.You get a family heir without the risk.So what exactly is your problem?”

Ten years. From a nobody on Wall Street to the head of a financial empire—I was there for every step. Shielding him from rivals cost me two pregnancies. But in the end,he had an affair with my best friend. He called it a”solution”for my own good. Chloe nestled against Julian’s shoulder. She stroked her flat stomach. “Ella,we’ve been like sisters our whole lives.The three of us under one roof.My baby will be ours.You’ve always wanted a family.Now your wish is coming true.” Julian gently patted Chloe’s hair. “See?Chloe is so kind.But you’re always emotional.” He pulled a document from his briefcase and tossed it on the coffee table. “This is an addendum to the prenup.My legal team already drafted it.The wedding in the Hamptons next month is still on.You will still be Mrs.Thorne—in name.” “But Chloe has a high-risk pregnancy.The doctor ordered bed rest.I’m having her move into our home to recover.She’ll stay with us as my‘distant cousin.’” I stared at the paper. My lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Staying as your cousin?And what happens after the baby is born?” “We’ll have you legally adopt him.He will be the rightful Thorne heir.Chloe is young.She doesn’t want a child tying down her social life.” Julian took out a Montblanc pen. He held it out to me. “As compensation,I’ll double the limit on your black card.The money is for taking care of Chloe and the baby.Ella,don’t be greedy.I gave you the kind of life most women in this city would kill for.What else do you want?”

He looked at me with chilling sincerity. To him,I was nothing more than a career-less dependent—a shiny possession for him to manage. Chloe picked up the pen. She pressed it into my palm. “Sign it,Ella.You gave Julian your best ten years.You have no work history.You can’t make it in New York without him.” I placed the pen back on the table. “No.” Julian’s expression darkened. “Ella Vance,don’t push your luck.I regret what happened to those pregnancies.Think of this baby as compensation.” He stood up and looked down at me. “I’m giving you one last chance.Sign it.” I stood up and took out the Cartier ring box. Then I threw it straight into the trash. “I’ll think about it.” I turned and walked away. I heard him sit down behind me. Then Chloe spoke behind me. “I knew she would come around.Julian,let’s pick out rings on Fifth Avenue tomorrow.I like Argyle pink diamonds.”

Night fell. I returned to the penthouse on Central Park West. Julian and I had lived there for five years. I typed in the familiar code. The electronic lock beeped:”Incorrect.” I froze,tried again,but got the same result. I stood outside my own door. Two hours later,the private elevator opened. Julian stepped out,supporting Chloe. He frowned when he saw me. “What are you doing out here?Why aren’t you inside?” “The code was changed.” Julian slapped his forehead. “Oh,right.The old code was your birthday.Too simple,a security risk.I changed it to Chloe’s birthday.” He keyed in the new code and the door opened. In the entryway,my usual Manolo Blahnik slippers were gone. In their place sat a pair of non-slip maternity slippers. “Yours had hard soles,”Julian explained casually,helping Chloe toward the master bedroom. “Chloe could slip,so I had the housekeeper throw them out.” I followed them to the master bedroom door. My blood ran cold. My entire collection of La Mer and CPB skincare products was gone,thrown in the trash. In the walk-in closet,most of my Chanel and Dior couture gowns had been moved. The racks were full of Chloe’s maternity clothes. “Julian,what is this?” I pointed at the half-empty closet.

Julian was pouring Evian for Chloe. He didn’t turn around. “Chloe is sensitive to scents during her pregnancy.The doctor said to avoid all fragranced products.The housekeeper moved your things to the guest room.You’ll stay there for the next few months.” Chloe leaned against the headboard,rubbing her stomach. “Ella,you’re not mad,are you?The doctor said I have to stay in bed.The master bedroom has better light and air.We’re best friends.You’ll understand,right?” Seeing her hypocritical performance,I didn’t have the energy to argue. The next morning,I sat in the dining room eating oatmeal. Julian came out of the bedroom. He put his phone on speaker in front of me. “Hello,is this the Vera Wang bridal boutique?This is Julian Thorne.I need to change the bride’s name on the wedding invitations.Please replace it with Chloe Vale.” My grip on the spoon tightened until my knuckles turned white. The assistant on the other end sounded shocked. “Mr.Thorne,what about Ms.Vance…?” Julian pulled out a chair and sat. He glanced at me coolly. “Ella?She’ll be the maid of honor.” He hung up and took a sip of milk. “Chloe wants to be the bride.She’s pregnant.Don’t upset her.It’s only a wedding.” Chloe walked out of the bedroom in my silk robe. She wrapped her arms around Julian’s neck,then turned to me. Her smile was pure. “Ella,will you be my maid of honor?I want you to witness my happiness in person.” Julian tapped the table. “Chloe is talking to you.Don’t be so petty.It’s just a wedding.” I looked down at the thick oatmeal in my bowl. Ten years of devotion. In the end,even my place as the bride could be stripped away. I put down my spoon and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Okay.” Julian smiled in satisfaction. “We need to keep the peace.”

“The Met Gala is tonight.Wear something simple.Don’t outshine Chloe.” On the sofa was a gray,out-of-season gown. His assistant had prepared it for me. Nearby,Chloe wore a custom Oscar de la Renta maternity gown. She stood beside Julian. Around her neck was the Argyle pink diamond necklace. It was supposed to be mine. “Julian,do I look good?” He put an arm around her waist. “You look incredible,baby.All eyes will be on you tonight.” He turned to me,his brow furrowed. “What are you waiting for?Go get changed.Don’t keep everyone waiting.” I picked up the gray gown and went to the guest room. When I came out,Julian and Chloe were already gone. I had to take an Uber to the museum alone. I pushed open the doors to the banquet hall. Julian was laughing with business leaders,a champagne flute in hand. Chloe clung intimately to his arm. I walked toward them slowly. I was about to stand beside Julian. An executive from JPMorgan pointed at Chloe. “Julian,who is this beautiful lady?” Julian raised his glass. He smiled broadly as he announced to the room. “Everyone,I’d like you to meet my fiancée,Chloe.”

A chorus of compliments erupted. A Goldman Sachs partner I knew spotted me in the corner. He looked surprised. “And this is Ms.Vance?” The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to me. Their gazes were a mix of curiosity,pity,and scorn. Julian didn’t even look back. His tone was light. “She’s just a distant cousin.” Ten years together. He erased our past with one sentence. Now I was just a”distant cousin.” Halfway through dinner,Chloe walked toward me with a glass of red wine. She stumbled on purpose. The entire glass of wine spilled onto my gray gown. “Oops,I am so clumsy!My bad,Ella!” She covered her mouth,feigning shock. But her eyes held a triumphant glint. Julian rushed over. He shoved me aside and checked on Chloe. “Are you okay?Is the baby okay?” He snapped at me. “What are you doing standing here?You know her pregnancy is high-risk,and you still stood in her way?Go to the restroom and clean up.Stop embarrassing me.” The gala ended. I waited in the parking garage for the driver. Chloe cried out. “Julian,I twisted my ankle.It hurts.” Without a word,Julian crouched down. “Get on.I’ll carry you.” Chloe climbed onto his back. She looked at me over his shoulder. She silently mouthed the words: Ten years can’t compete with my three-month-old baby. I stopped walking. Julian turned back,his voice impatient. “Ella Vance,hurry!The Bentley key is in your bag!” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Get the key over here!”he yelled. I opened my purse. The crystal-studded car key was in my hand. I threw it onto the oil-stained pavement. The clatter of metal was sharp and piercing. Julian froze. I didn’t look at him again. I hailed a yellow cab and left. Back at the penthouse,the MacBook screen lit up. I dragged thousands of our photos into the trash and hit delete. Photos from college until now. All the cloud backups were encrypted. Every password was changed. A message from Julian arrived. “Remember the bridesmaid dress fitting tomorrow.Chloe wants pink.” I didn’t reply. I wasn’t enduring. I was collecting evidence and waiting for the right moment. Three packed Rimowa suitcases stood in the corner of the living room. I was ready to leave.

“This pink dress suits you,Ella.Come try it on.” Wearing my custom wedding gown,Chloe shoved a cheap pink bridesmaid dress into my arms. Julian sat on the sofa,reading The Wall Street Journal. He didn’t even look up. “Go change.Don’t keep Chloe waiting.” I went into the fitting room and changed. When I came out,Chloe was hanging off Julian’s arm,all soft smiles and fake sweetness. Julian lowered the newspaper. The awe in his eyes was only for Chloe in her wedding gown. “Beautiful.You make anything look good.” Chloe walked over to me. She took my hand. Her voice was soft,but every word was meant to hurt. “Ella,you have to be happy for us.We’re best friends.The three of us will live together from now on.My child will call you godmother.You can stay home and help me with the baby.I’ll have Julian pay you a monthly salary.” Julian chimed in. “Ella,Chloe’s being generous.She’s literally trying to make sure you’re taken care of.” Watching their performance was absurd. I pulled my hand away. I took off the pink bridesmaid dress and tossed it on the sofa. “I’m not wearing this.”

“Ella Vance,what the hell is your problem now?” Julian shot to his feet. I ignored him and walked out of the bridal shop. That afternoon,the wedding rehearsal was held at St.Patrick’s Cathedral. Chloe linked arms with Julian,walking down the flower-lined aisle. I sat in the pews. A complete outsider. The rehearsal ended. I was the only one left in the vast cathedral. Julian came back for his car keys. He saw me and hesitated,then sat down beside me. “Ella,I know this is hard on you.” He lit a cigar. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me.I’ll compensate you generously when the baby is born.You can have anything you want.The only thing I can’t give you is the title of Mrs.Thorne.” I turned to look at him. Light from the stained-glass windows fell on his profile. My voice was ice-cold. “Julian,in these ten years,was there ever a single moment you felt you owed me anything?” The hand holding his cigar paused. He was silent for a few seconds,then blew out a ring of smoke. “From my small apartment in Brooklyn to a penthouse on Central Park.For ten years,I gave you the best life in New York.My conscience is clear.” Those four words were a blade of ice. They severed the last thread of hope inside me. “Fine.I understand.” I stood up.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260730Kt080fEVWz 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni371670”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

Seven days before the wedding, and my fiancé had gotten my name wrong on the invitations for the ninety-ninth time. Three hundred invitations had gone out. Every single one bore another woman’s name. Lily Hart. I brought a sample to him. Nathan’s brow creased with impatience. “Lily’s been in a bad place lately. Don’t upset her with something this petty. Besides, she saved my life. What’s wrong with giving her a little presence at the wedding?” I looked past him into the apartment that was supposed to be ours. My whole body was trembling. Lily Hart was wearing my pajamas, my engagement ring on her finger, sitting on the sofa I’d picked out myself, smiling at me. “Claire, you don’t mind, do you? Nathan said my back hurts, so he’s letting me sleep in the master bedroom tonight.” I set the invitation on the table. My finger pressed down on the line that read Lily Hart. “Fine.” I’d given up the master bedroom. I’d given up the name on the invitations. The wedding and the groom—I didn’t want those either. Lily snatched up the invitation faster than I could set it down. She flipped it open, and when she saw the line Bride: Lily Hart, her fingers lingered on the gold-foil lettering for two seconds. The wedding planner stood beside her, smiling cautiously. “Ms. Bennett, Mr. Whitmore confirmed it three times. Take another look, anything else you’d like changed?” Three times. Every letter on that cardstock was perfectly clear. No Claire Bennett. Only Lily Hart. Nathan came out of the kitchen carrying a warm glass of milk and handed it to Lily without thinking. “What are you doing here again?” I pushed the invitation in front of him. “You confirmed it three times.” He glanced down, annoyance creeping between his brows. “The wedding company made a mistake. Have them reprint it.” “They’ve already been sent out.” “Then send a correction email.” He said it so easily. Three hundred invitations with another woman’s name printed where the bride’s should be, and he spoke as if someone had gotten a dish wrong on the dinner menu. Just fix it. Lily cradled her mug, and her eyes reddened instantly, tears spilling on cue. “Nathan, it’s all my fault… I shouldn’t have helped you review the details. Is Claire… is she upset with me?” Nathan reached over and wiped the tear from the corner of her eye, his voice so gentle it was as though he feared she might shatter. “It’s not your fault. You were just trying to help. If she can’t even handle this without making a fuss, she’s the one being unreasonable.” I suddenly remembered last week. My stomach was cramping so badly I’d slid off the sofa onto the floor. I texted him to bring me a glass of warm water. He replied forty minutes later. “There’s water in the kitchen. Get it yourself.” But Lily mentions her back hurts once, and he gives up the master bedroom, heats her milk, drapes the robe I’d chosen over her shoulders. The wedding planner asked quietly: “Ms. Bennett, so are we making the change or…?” I said: “No changes.” Nathan looked up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I stood. I placed the invitation back in the center of the coffee table. “The entire wedding is canceled.” The living room went dead silent. Nathan’s hand froze mid-air, still holding the cup. His tone went cold. “Claire Bennett, are you done throwing a fit?” “The contracts are in my name. The money came from my account. I say it’s canceled—it’s canceled.” Lily bit her lip. Tears fell. “Claire, don’t do this. Nathan’s just been so busy. He didn’t mean to get your name wrong.” I looked at the ring on her hand. “Take it off.” She pulled her hand back. “It’s just the sample ring. Nathan said I should try it for sizing.” “My ring. You’re trying it on?” Nathan set down his cup. “Her fingers are about the same size as yours. She was just trying it on.” “And the master bedroom? Should she test the marriage bed for me too?” Nathan’s expression turned ugly. “Watch your mouth.” “Watch your behavior.” He stared at me. A few seconds passed, then he let out a cold laugh. “Fine. Make your scene. Your mother just sent invitations to all the relatives. Go ahead—cancel it. I dare you.” Before, when he used that tone to pin me down, I would panic. I would retreat. I would swallow my tears. Not this time. I took out my phone and called the wedding planner right in front of him. “Terminate everything. The dress, the hotel, the dinner, the invitations—all of it. Deduct the penalty from the deposit. Refund the balance to my account.” After I hung up, the smile was gone from Nathan’s face. Lily clutched the sash of the robe and lowered her head. That robe was a gift from my mother. She’d said it would be comfortable for the first morning as a newlywed—and would photograph beautifully too. I looked at it one last time, then turned toward the door. Nathan called after me: “If you walk out today, don’t bother coming back tomorrow!” I pulled the door open. “I won’t.” As the elevator doors closed, I heard Lily ask: “Nathan, she won’t really leave, will she?” Nathan’s answer: “She can’t live without me.” The elevator descended. I opened my phone and tapped on the email I’d just received. Westbridge General Hospital archive retrieval request—preliminary review approved. That rainy night seven years ago. Someone was finally willing to give me back the truth.

I returned to my rented apartment. The first thing I did was open my laptop. I canceled the banquet venue and the photographer. Returned the wedding gown. Withdrew the guest list. Every refund was routed back to my account. Nathan didn’t know that this entire wedding had been funded by me from start to finish. Mrs. Whitmore had said the family was tight on cash flow and asked me to cover things for now. “We’ll be family soon enough. What difference does it make whose name is on the bill?” Three million dollars. Thirty-six tables for the banquet, three wedding gowns, interior décor for the new apartment, honeymoon flights—even the gold-foil embossing on the invitations. All of it, my money. My father had asked me once: “Claire, is it really worth spending like this before you’re even married?” At the time, I’d said it was worth it. Because I loved Nathan Whitmore. Loved him enough that every time he put Lily ahead of me, I still made excuses for him. Loved him enough that when Mrs. Whitmore made me sign that nondisclosure agreement, I didn’t fight back. Looking back now, that wasn’t devotion. It was stupidity. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Claire, why is everyone in the family group chat saying the wedding’s off? What happened?” “Mom, I’m not getting married.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “Did he hurt you?” My nose stung. “Yeah.” My mother said only one thing: “Come home.” The doorbell rang then. I opened the door. Nathan stood outside, holding a document envelope. “Reinstate the hotel.” I didn’t let him in. “That’s not possible.” “My mother’s blood pressure spiked.” “Then take her to a hospital. I’m not a doctor.” “Claire, don’t take your anger out on your elders.” “I paid for the wedding. I canceled the wedding. How is that taking anything out on anyone?” He held back his temper and thrust the envelope at me. “I’ll pay you back. Just sign this first.” I opened it and glanced inside. Property transfer documents for the new apartment. I’d put two million toward the down payment. On those documents, next to Claire Bennett, it clearly stated: voluntary full transfer of property rights to Lily Hart. I looked up at him. “What is this?” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lily doesn’t have any property under her name. She needs it for a business license application. It’s just temporary—her name on the title. It won’t affect you living there.” “My money bought that apartment, and you want her name on it?” “Once we’re married, we’re all family. Stop drawing such hard lines.” “She and I are not family.” Nathan’s jaw was tight with anger. “Do you have to make everything this ugly? Who’s the one losing face here, you or me?” His phone rang. Lily was crying on the other end. “Nathan, did I cause a fight between you two? I’ll move out right now. I won’t let Claire misunderstand anymore.” Nathan’s tone shifted instantly. “Shh, you didn’t do anything wrong. Stay put. I’m coming right back.” After hanging up, he looked at me. “She’s already miserable enough. Do you have to push her?” I asked: “What about me?” He didn’t answer. I asked again: “Don’t I get to feel miserable?” He looked away. “Don’t compare yourself to her. You and she are different.” When those words landed, I actually laughed. Seven years. He’d been protecting Lily so long it had become reflex. Whether I was in pain, humiliated, or wronged—none of it even registered with him. He tossed out one last line before stepping into the elevator: “Go apologize to Lily tomorrow. The wedding is back on.” The elevator doors closed. I looked down at the property documents. At the bottom of the envelope was a screenshot. Mrs. Whitmore, texting Lily: “We’ll let her find out about the property after the wedding. Once a woman’s married into the family, she’ll behave.” Lily’s reply: “Don’t worry, Auntie. She can’t bear to lose Nathan.” Followed by a smiley face. I stared at that screenshot for a long time. So this wasn’t a wedding. It was a trap they’d dug for me.

The next morning, Mrs. Whitmore showed up at my office. She hadn’t made an appointment. She was sitting by the front desk with a red gift bag in front of her. I’d just come out of a meeting. She pushed the bag toward me. “I’ve already called the wedding people. Everything that needs to be reinstated has been reinstated.” “That’s not possible.” The smile left her face. “Claire, a woman should know when to rein in her temper.” Inside the bag was a gold bracelet and a ledger. She tapped the ledger with her fingertip. “Everything Nathan has spent on you over the years—I haven’t tallied it precisely. The bracelet is a gesture from the Whitmore family.” I opened it. Seven years of dinners he’d treated me to, flowers he’d sent, holiday red envelopes, even cab fares—all itemized. Total: eighty-six thousand three hundred and twenty dollars. I asked her: “Would you like to itemize the three million I put toward the wedding too?” Mrs. Whitmore’s expression changed. “Child, why must everything with you come down to money?” “You’re the one who started keeping accounts.” She lifted her teacup and took a sip. “Nathan is a man. His career comes first. Once you marry in, stop fixating on these small sums.” “Three million is a small sum, but eighty-six thousand is a debt?” She was cornered. Her expression soured further. The receptionist and several colleagues had turned to look. Mrs. Whitmore lowered her voice. “Claire, some things cannot be made into a public scene. If you really tear off the Whitmore family’s face, don’t expect to ever walk through our door again.” “I have no intention of walking through it.” She set down her cup. “Think carefully. That agreement from seven years ago—you signed it.” I looked at her. “And?” “So there are things you cannot say. Things you cannot touch.” “What if I touch them?” She fixed her eyes on me. “The penalty is five million. Can you afford that?” I remembered that agreement. Seven years ago, I’d woken up with an IV still in my hand, and Mrs. Whitmore placed documents in front of me to sign. She said it was just to protect Nathan. She said as long as I was sensible, the Whitmore family would accept me as a daughter-in-law. I believed her then. Mrs. Whitmore pushed the gold bracelet closer. “The wedding continues. Sign the property transfer. And go apologize to Lily while you’re at it. Her health is fragile. She can’t handle you making trouble like this.” I took out my phone. “I’ll have a lawyer review that agreement.” “Claire Bennett, do you really think Nathan can’t live without you?” I looked at her. “You’re right. That’s why I don’t want him anymore.” Mrs. Whitmore stood, her face white with rage. “You’ll regret this.” “That’s my business.” After she left, a colleague from legal sent me a message. “Claire, that old agreement you mentioned—we’d need to check the medical records for the signing date. If you were still in post-operative recovery at the time, the document may not be enforceable.” I pulled up the hospital system. The records from seven years ago were locked. Access denied. That afternoon, an unfamiliar number called. The woman on the other end said her name was Parker. She’d worked in the emergency department at Westbridge General Hospital. “Ms. Bennett, I’m about to retire. While sorting through old files, I saw your name. There are some things I think should be returned to you.” I arranged to meet her across from the hospital. Nurse Parker sat by the window. Her hair had gone mostly gray. She slid an old USB drive across the table. “The surveillance footage from the ER corridor that night. Someone told me to delete it. I didn’t delete all of it.” I asked: “Who told you to delete it?” She didn’t answer. She just looked at me. “Watch it. You’ll understand.”

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/20260730NcWzpQSx9y 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni399553”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

Don Carlo was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative who despised violence. Me? I grew up with gunfire and bullets as my lullabies. The only reason he’d handed me divorce papers in the first place was because I’d dragged him along when we jumped from a shipping container down at the docks. But that was before I came across photos of him at the shooting range—with his female subordinate. An assassin. I had my people dig deeper. Hundreds of photos came back. Every single one of them featured the same woman: Valentina. On our anniversary, he said he was too swamped to come home and celebrate. Because Valentina’s mission had gone sideways that day, and he was busy comforting her. On Christmas, I asked him to make time to visit my parents with me. He begged off, saying he had urgent family matters to attend to. Because he felt bad for Valentina—alone in a foreign country with no one to spend the holidays with. I flipped through the photos, my fingers going numb. One intimate shot after another. There she was, leaning against his shoulder while eating cake. There he was, cleaning her gun for her. There they were, sitting side by side on the steps, sharing a cigarette. Then a hesitant voice cut through beside me. “Madam, Don Carlo might still be busy in there—today’s Valentina’s mission debriefing. Perhaps… you could wait a little longer?” I rose to my feet. “No need. Tell Don Carlo he’d better get ready to sign divorce papers.” Back at the apartment, I went straight to the master bedroom on the second floor and started packing. I set the signed divorce agreement on the nightstand—and looked up into a pair of jet-black eyes. Carlo’s gaze dropped to the two suitcases beside me, and his brow furrowed. “I had a debriefing with the men at noon. I had to be there. Couldn’t get away. And now you’re upset again?” I didn’t answer. I grabbed my suitcases and headed for the door. But he held them in place. “Isabella. Say something.” I stayed silent. He looked at me calmly, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “When are you going to break that infuriating habit of going mute every time you get angry?” When I couldn’t tug the suitcases free, I let out a breath, straightened up, and said, “I want a divorce.” “On what grounds?” “You cheated on me. Isn’t that enough?” I brushed his hand aside and started for the door with my luggage. But he stopped me again. “Isabella, can we not do this? There’s only you. No one else.” “Oh, really?” I pulled out the stack of photos. “Then who’s this?” In the photos, they stood side by side at the shooting range, his hand over hers as he corrected her grip. Crystal clear. “You told me you were afraid of heights and hated guns. So how come that fear magically disappears when you’re with her?” “Tell me why.” I kept my voice as steady as I could. “Isabella. You had me investigated?” No apology. No admission. No explanation. Just an accusation. “Shouldn’t you start by explaining this?” He tugged at his tie, agitated, and let out a long breath. “Her name’s Valentina. She’s one of my soldiers. The kid’s last mission went sideways, she’s been in a bad place mentally, so I took her to the range.” “That’s all.” “Carlo. Do you even believe that yourself?” One photo could be written off. But a hundred of them? How was he going to talk his way out of that? He fell silent. I grabbed my suitcases again. He spoke. “Where are you going?” “To my parents’. For a while.” He said nothing. I’d reached the door when he finally said, “Give me some time. I’ll sort this out as soon as I can.” I didn’t look back. I walked out. When I got home, I didn’t tell my parents about the divorce. I just made up an excuse—said he’d been buried in work and I didn’t want to stay alone, so I’d come back to stay a while. Luckily, they didn’t press. The next day, I went to the family warehouse to take inventory as usual. But there was someone waiting at the entrance. Valentina. She looked exactly like she did in the photos. All in black. A little nervous. I walked past her and unlocked the door. She stopped me. “You must be Isabella.” I didn’t answer. She pressed on. “I need to talk to you about something. Can we?” She wore an innocent look. In the end, I let her in. She sat across from me, fidgeting, and started going on about Don Carlo. “Did he send you?” I asked. She lifted her chin, stubborn. “No. I came on my own.” “Leave. This is between him and me. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” I stood up to get back to work. She shot up too. “Miss Isabella, believe me or not—there’s nothing going on between Don Carlo and me. I was just upset that day and begged him to take me to the range. It was all a misunderstanding.” “A misunderstanding?” I laughed. I pulled the stack of photos from the drawer and slapped them onto the table. “Are all these hundred-odd photos a misunderstanding too?” Valentina went speechless. I brushed past her hand. “If you’re here to be an assassin, then be an assassin. Don’t try sleazy backdoor tricks to climb the ladder.” Her face turned pale, her eyes glistening like she’d burst into tears any second. She spun around and ran out.

It wasn’t long before I got a call from Don Carlo—calling me out for bullying Valentina. I was so furious I laughed, and went straight to his office. “Don Carlo, she came to me. And I’d love to know how she knew the location of my warehouse.” “Also—since you’ve got the time to come over and lay into me, why not just sign the divorce papers and go run off to your little girlfriend?” He was quiet. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “Isabella, you’re not thinking straight right now. I’ll come by tonight and we’ll talk.” He turned and left. And that night, he did. The warehouse door swung open, and he stood in the doorway. I was seated at my desk, going over the family ledgers. I didn’t even look up, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “What? Here to fight for your little girl’s honor?” He didn’t answer. Finally, he let out a sigh—helpless. “You are my wife, Isabella.” I ignored him. He went on. “I’m heading to Sicily this week for the elders’ meeting. I’ll be gone a week. When I get back, we’ll sort this out.” My hand paused on the ledger. He continued. “Since you don’t like Valentina, I’ll minimize contact with her from now on. I’m handing off all her missions to other capos. I won’t be directly involved anymore.” I kept flipping pages, saying nothing. He lingered at the door for a long time, then finally left. The next morning, a family messenger brought word that he’d set sail. For the next seven days, he sent me updates like clockwork. Sometimes it was about what was happening in his meetings. Sometimes it was a photo of his meal. Even though I never replied once. After seven days, he returned. The day he came back, he brought me a gift. A dagger, its hilt inlaid with a sapphire—exquisitely made. He took it out of the box and placed it gently in my palm. It fit perfectly in my grip. “Like it?” he asked. I didn’t answer, stubbornly turning my head away. He didn’t get upset. His tone was gentle. “I messed up this time. As long as you don’t divorce me, you can throw any tantrum you want, Isabella.” “As for moving back—stay here as long as you like. I’ll come see you every day.” With that, he left. That night, lying in bed, I studied the dagger in my hand. I decided to give him one more chance. Tomorrow was his birthday. I’d surprise him. The next afternoon, carrying the tiramisu I’d slaved over all morning, I returned to our apartment. I pushed open the door—and saw Valentina sitting at the dining table, urging Don Carlo to make a wish. Candlelight flickered across his face. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw me. I threw down the tiramisu and turned to walk out. “Isabella—” He caught up, grabbing my hand. “Isabella, let me explain. I didn’t expect you to come back. Valentina just came by to wish me a happy birthday.” “Didn’t expect me back? If I hadn’t shown up, what else would you two be doing behind my back?” He started to explain. Then, from inside, the sound of a glass shattering on the floor. Followed by Valentina’s startled cry. Don Carlo instinctively turned to check—then remembered me, and turned back. “Isabella, wait here. I’ll be right back.” I said nothing. I watched his back disappear, turned, and walked away.

The next day, he showed up outside my parents’ building, pleading. Luckily, my parents had left for Sicily two days earlier. They didn’t know. Which meant I could ignore him freely. He stood there for three full days. He sent word through someone, saying that day had truly been a misunderstanding—Valentina had come to him on her own. He couldn’t exactly turn her away. He said he’d transferred Valentina to another capo. That he’d never contact her again. He begged me for one more chance. I didn’t respond. On the fourth day, he didn’t show. He had business. I finally had a moment to myself, and went to the warehouse. I pushed open the door—and was met with chaos. Total devastation. Nearly half the family supplies—the ledgers I’d kept for years—were destroyed. Some torn to shreds. Some knocked to the ground. Everything in ruin. The lock hadn’t been forced. I checked the security logs. It turned out Valentina had used a key to get in and wreck the place. And there were only two keys to the warehouse: mine, and Don Carlo’s. I went straight to confront Valentina. Face to face. Her eyes were red, her hands clenched into fists, her expression pitiful. “Miss Isabella, I know you’ve been misunderstanding everything about Don Carlo and me, and you’re taking it out on me—even making him reassign me.” “But I already explained to you. There’s really nothing between Don Carlo and me.” “Why are you doing this to me?” “Don’t you think this is too much? Controlling Don Carlo every step of the way—do you really think that makes him happy?” “Or is it because of what happened to you in high school, Miss Isabella, that you’ve turned out this twisted?” “What did you say?” Instantly, the members of Valentina’s crew turned to stare at me. Whispers broke out. “Wait—really? She was assaulted back in high school?” “No wonder she’s so messed up. Guess that explains it. Poor Don Carlo—running the family and dealing with a broken wife.” “Picking on a young girl like that. Real classy.” I felt like I’d been dropped into an icy abyss. My grip on her wrist tightened. “Who told you that?” She didn’t answer. But I already knew. After all, the only person who knew and would tell her was Don Carlo. She leaned in, her lips curling upward—a world away from the fragile act she’d been putting on. “Don Carlo, of course. And that dagger he brought back from Sicily for you? I picked it out.” What…? I stood frozen. So Don Carlo had never actually cut ties with Valentina. Not only had he spent those seven days in Sicily—while messaging me every day—actually with her… The gift he gave me was chosen by her too. “The one who doesn’t deserve Don Carlo is you, Isabella.” Her eyes were venomous. Before I could react, a force shoved me aside. I stumbled, nearly falling. Don Carlo pushed through the crowd, shielding Valentina behind him. “Isabella, what exactly are you doing?” “I already did what you asked—transferred Valentina to another capo, cut contact. Why are you still going after her again and again?” Me, going after her? I laughed. I started to speak—but Don Carlo took Valentina’s hand and walked out of the warehouse without looking back. The others filed out too. Only a few scattered figures lingered nearby. Whispering. I left like a ghost.

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/202607303vo48MRXbI 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni903930”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

I stood by Don Declan Marchetti through everything—from nothing to controlling New York’s underworld. And six months into our marriage, I asked for a divorce. The scholarship girl I’d personally funded was on her knees, sobbing, swearing she’d cut all ties. Declan sat motionless, his thumb tracing the edge of the divorce papers, jaw clenched tight. “I just thought Isabelle reminded me of who you used to be. I wanted to give her everything I couldn’t give you back then.” “I wanted to make it up to the girl who suffered beside me.” Make it up. Taking Isabelle to late-night diners on the Lower East Side. Carrying her shopping bags down Fifth Avenue. Flying her to Santa Fe to watch the sunset. Dropping six figures at Sotheby’s to win her the Moonlight Heart diamond. Sitting up with her until dawn. All of it—compensation. But that compensation belonged to me. And since he’d given it away, I didn’t want him anymore either. I smiled—just a ghost of one, edged with something cold. “Declan, am I dead?” I was standing right here. Breathing. Alive. So why was someone else collecting what was mine? He said nothing. Just pressed his lips together and stared at me with that infuriating silence. Isabelle’s face went sheet-white. She nearly crumpled to the floor. In the past, this was where I’d lose it—screaming, raging at his composure, hating how he could sit there like a marble saint while I burned. As if nothing he ever did was wrong. But today, I just laughed softly. I uncapped the Mont Blanc pen and tossed it in front of him. “Sign it. I’m only asking for half. That’s more than fair.” Ink splattered across his fingers. Maybe I imagined it, but his hand seemed to tremble. He picked up the pen. The trembling got worse. Three attempts. No signature. Then the pen hit the table with a sharp crack. “Sera, it’s not what you think. You’ve got this all wrong.” “Our marriage deserves more than this. I won’t agree to it.” Isabelle snapped awake then, tears glistening like crystal. She crawled toward me, clutching the hem of my dress, voice breaking. “I swear—there’s nothing between us. He treats me like a sister. He’s just projecting his guilt about you onto me.” “Please don’t fight because of me. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear right now. Just please don’t be angry anymore.” I exhaled slowly. Same question as before. Am I dead? If I’m not dead, why is someone else living my life? “She’s the scholarship student you chose to sponsor,” Declan said, an edge creeping into his voice. “You’re seriously jealous of a charity case?” “If I wanted a woman who reminded me of you, why wouldn’t I just keep a mistress outright?” “Isn’t that exactly what this is?” I asked quietly. Every bone in my body ached with exhaustion. No brother-in-law buys his little sister a diamond ring. No brother-in-law stays up all night talking to his sister. Once or twice might be concern. But twenty times in a single month? That’s not concern. That’s devotion. I used to think I was being paranoid. Now I realized I’d been blind. Stupid. “Seraphina! Have you lost your mind?” “She’s nineteen years old! You want to destroy her?” Declan’s face went dark, fury blazing behind his eyes. “She just started at Juilliard! She’s not like you—dropped out of high school and had two abortions over a man before you were twenty! Are you trying to ruin her life?” Three accusations, each one sharper than the last. He didn’t even hear himself. Didn’t realize what he’d just revealed—how deeply he cared about Isabelle Laurent. My eyes burned. The tears came before I could stop them. He was right. I wasn’t like Isabelle. I gave up my scholarship for him. Worked double shifts. Threw away my future—Harvard, the National Ballet Company, and even the two babies I lost to malnutrition without ever knowing I was carrying them. All of it—for him. He could forget all that if he wanted. But he had no right to weaponize it against me. I tilted my head back, swiping roughly at my face. It took everything I had to form a complete sentence. “Then sign the papers.” “Declan. Let’s end this cleanly.”

Declan’s fist tightened. He was about to speak when Isabelle lurched to her feet with a sob and threw herself headfirst into the marble fireplace mantel. Blood everywhere. Streaming down her face, soaking into the white silk of her blouse. And still—still—she was begging me. “If my dying is what it takes for you two to be happy again, then I’ll do it willingly.” “I never meant to come between you. I thought—I thought you wouldn’t mind, that we were family—” I went rigid. Frozen in place. Declan’s face drained of all color. His eyes turned crimson in an instant. He shoved me aside—and caught Isabelle in his arms, tears falling without warning or restraint. “Belle—Belle, wake up. Open your eyes.” She went limp against him. Declan looked up at me, red-eyed and shaking, disbelief carved into every feature. There was shock in that look. Rage. And accusation. He didn’t say a word to me. Not until the family doctor arrived and loaded her onto the stretcher. Not until he was following them out the door. Then he paused. Turned halfway. His voice like gravel. “Happy now, Sera?” The penthouse went silent. Cold drafts seemed to pour straight through my chest. Tears blurred everything. I slid down against the sofa until I was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around myself, aching in a way that had nothing to do with my body. I kept seeing it—the moment she hit the marble, the moment he wept. Declan Marchetti does not cry. When Declan was twenty-two, men from a rival family shattered his kneecap with an iron pipe. He never made a sound. And my two miscarriages, Declan held me and just said the same thing: “We’ll have more. Sera. I’ll make it up to you.” But tonight, he cried for Isabelle Laurent. In that instant, I understood exactly what she meant to him. And what our ten years together amounted to. I bit down hard, swallowed the copper taste of blood and bitterness, and sat there until the sky outside turned black. He came back well after midnight. Saw me still on the floor. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was pure ice. “Belle survived. but the blow had left a scar on her forehead.” “She’s the most promising student in her program at Juilliard. She shouldn’t let a scar ruin her career, the only option is a skin graft.” My eyelids felt like lead. My forehead burned. Every word reached me through a fog. Before I could respond, Declan steeled himself. “Sera, you and Belle are practically sisters. You’re the only possible donor.” “Besides—if you hadn’t pushed her to the edge, she never would have tried to prove her innocence that way.” Then, afraid I’d refuse, he exhaled and crouched in front of me. Drew me gently into his arms. “Think of it as one small cut. That’s all. Just one. Okay?” That sentence—I heard it clearly. My mind dragged me back ten years. Declan drowning in debt, fighting bare-knuckle in underground rings just to survive. The worst night, the other side demanded they break both his arms—shatter his pride permanently. I got on my knees and begged. Then I drove a knife into my own body. Seven times. Until they were satisfied. That night, Declan didn’t cry. But his eyes were blood-red. He swore against my ear: Never again. I will never let anyone hurt you again. Now he was telling me it was just one small cut. I was burning alive with fever, barely conscious, and somewhere in the delirium I was twenty-two again, my face pressed into his shoulder. “I don’t want to… I won’t…” “Declan, I don’t want to anymore… please, I really don’t want to…” Tears rolled down, soaking half his shirt. He closed his eyes. His nails dug crescents into his palms. Three minutes of silence. Then his voice, hoarse: “Be good, Sera. It won’t hurt. It’ll be over fast.” “Just get through this one thing, and I’ll pretend none of this ever happened. We’ll go back to how things were.” “One cut. After that, I’ll never do anything you don’t like again.” Consciousness slipping, I only shook my head, murmuring the same words over and over. “I don’t want to anymore… I really don’t want to…”

I burned with fever for three days. When I finally opened my eyes, the skin below my collarbone screamed with pain. I tried to sit up, but a nurse caught me by the shoulders and pressed me back down. Only then did I realize I was in the family hospital. Her brow was furrowed, voice tight with concern. “You just had a skin graft procedure. The pain is normal—you were running a high fever during surgery. You’ve been unconscious for seventy-two hours.” She dabbed a wet cotton swab across my cracked lips as she spoke. “The Don Declan, though—so sweet to his wife. I never expected that. He stayed by her side for three straight days. Didn’t sleep. Eyes completely bloodshot. And assigned six bodyguards to guard her room closely.” “He was worried the skin on her forehead wouldn’t heal pretty enough, so he insisted we use the patch from just below your collarbone. We told him multiple times it would cause you excruciating pain, but he wouldn’t budge.” She glanced back at me. “You’re really selfless, though. Are you one of his subordinates?” The pain from the wound drilled straight into my chest. My fingers twisted into the sheets until my knuckles went white. “They’re… a couple?” My voice came out like sandpaper. The nurse nodded cheerfully. “Last night when the girl woke up, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him. If that’s not his woman, what is?” Something inside me cracked open. Declan has never been demonstrative. Public affection—kissing, hand-holding, embracing—he finds it undignified. In ten years, he never once kissed me where anyone could see. But Isabelle became the exception. After the nurse left, the tears finally came. I bit into my lip until I tasted iron, refusing to let a single sob escape. Everything Declan said that night while I was delirious came rushing back with brutal clarity. I’ll never do anything you don’t like again. I was the only one who believed it. I waited until well past midnight. Then Declan came in, startled to find me awake. Something guilty flickered across his face. “Family meeting ran late. Sorry I’m only just getting here—how do you feel? Still hurting?” The lie came so naturally. He even touched his nose—his tell. Always has been. I looked at him calmly and felt nothing but the absurdity of it all. This was the fourth lie this month. The first time: Working late at the office. Actually shopping for lingerie with Isabelle on Madison Avenue. The second: Drinks with Marcus. Actually fixing a leaking pipe in her apartment. The third: Business trip to Chicago. Actually flying to Palm Beach to buy her a bracelet she’d admired. Beneath the blanket, my nails carved half-moons into my palms. I couldn’t even feel it. I lowered my gaze, a bitter smile forming. “Declan. I never agreed to give Isabelle my skin.” The air crystallized. His guilt vanished, replaced by something harder. He studied me for a long moment, then rubbed his brow with weary exasperation. “Sera, how old are you? You’re a decade older than her. Are you really going to compete with a teenage girl?” “Her life is just beginning. You’re supposed to be sisters—not enemies.” “Another scar means nothing on you. But for Belle—one scar and her entire future is over. Her dream is Hollywood. Her face is everything.” He looked at me the way you’d look at a child throwing a tantrum. “When are you going to grow up?” I almost laughed—a broken, incredulous sound. Grow up? Wasn’t it him who promised, before we married, that I’d never have to? Another scar means nothing on me? Isabelle’s dream is to be an actress? What about my dream? What about the seven scars already carved into my body? Is that just my bad luck? He saw the tears and immediately softened—reached out to brush them away. I flinched back. His hand hung frozen in the air between us. “Declan… sometimes I really wish I’d never traded seven stab wounds for your hands.” He went silent. Something like panic flashed through his eyes. “Just let me go. Please.”

Watch👉 https://cps-front.novelix.live/app-api/ext/new/202607300kHPcJbDc2 🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “Novelix” app 🔍 search for “ni578879”, and watch the full series ✨! #Novelix

My boyfriend, Calvin, was a severe germaphobe. When I spoke to him, I had to stand at least ten feet away. Anything I touched had to be wiped down with rubbing alcohol before he would even look at it. The day he proposed, he refused to get down on one knee because he thought the floor was too dirty. Instead, he just tossed the velvet box onto my lap. “Erica,” he had told me, his voice tight. “I am fighting my own hardwired biological instincts to love you.” And I believed him. Completely. Until the afternoon our apartment caught fire, trapping my cousin Darcy and me on the balcony. Calvin burst through the door, but the moment he saw us, he immediately scooped Darcy into his arms. I sobbed, reaching out, begging him to pull me out of the smoke. But he only spared me a cold, detached glance. “Erica, you’re too dirty.” With a heavy slam, the door shut in my face. Scalding, black smoke flooded my lungs. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the concrete. The last thing I saw through the haze was his arms wrapped tightly around Darcy, shielding her from the world. That was the closest I had ever come to dying. And it was the exact moment I decided I was done accommodating him. …… When I finally woke up, the searing pain of the burns still radiated across my back. My best friend, Bridget, was sitting beside my hospital bed, clutching my hand. “Erica, thank God. You’re awake. How do you feel?” I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, producing only a dry, rasping sound. Outside the room, muted voices drifted through the door. “Calvin, honey, why aren’t you going in to see Erica?” It was his mother’s voice. “Mom, Darcy still needs to pick up her scan results. I’m going downstairs first.” “Calvin! Wait, you can’t just leave—” Their footsteps faded down the corridor. Bridget’s brow furrowed, her eyes flashing with anger on my behalf. “What is wrong with your boyfriend? He actually shut the door on you after grabbing Darcy? That’s why your burns are this bad!” I lowered my eyes, the nightmare replaying behind my eyelids. When the flames had surged toward us, I had instinctively shielded a trembling Darcy with my own body, letting the suffocating smoke fill my lungs instead of hers. My face had been blackened with soot and ash; Darcy’s had remained pristine. When that jammed balcony door finally clicked open, Calvin’s panicked face had appeared. But before relief could even register, he bypassed me entirely to lift Darcy. The heat had licked at my skin, a terrible, biting agony. What about me? I had gasped out, my voice cracking. But he had only pulled Darcy closer against his chest. “You’re too dirty.” Those three quiet words snuffed out the last of my hope. Then the door swung shut, locking me back into the inferno. I closed my eyes now, trying to block out the phantom smell of smoke. “He isn’t,” I whispered. Bridget leaned in closer. “What did you say?” “Calvin. He isn’t my boyfriend anymore.” The fierce boy who had once chased off a group of thugs to protect me had long since vanished. The man who replaced him had chosen someone else. I had spent seven years bending my life to fit his neuroses. I figured that was more than enough to repay my debt to him. The door handle clicked. The door swung open slowly. Calvin stood in the doorway, his face pale and tense. Darcy was clinging to his arm. Darcy stepped forward first, her expression a mask of gentle concern, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. “Erica, oh my gosh. How are you feeling?” “I’m fine,” I replied, my voice flat. “Fine?” Bridget snapped, jumping to her feet. She turned on Darcy. “Do you have any idea that your sister shielded you? She has third-degree burns across her entire back! And look at you—not a single scratch!” “If you hadn’t stupidly thrown water into a grease fire, the kitchen wouldn’t have gone up in the first place!” Darcy’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “I’m… I’m so sorry. Erica left the stove unattended to grab something, and I just wanted to help…” Calvin stepped in, pulling Darcy against his side. His brow furrowed with deep irritation. I stared at the space between us. Less than three feet. For seven years, he had enforced a strict ten-foot boundary. I had never dared to cross it, never dared to hope he would step closer to me. Now, he was finally standing near me—only to shield another woman from the truth. “That’s enough,” Calvin said, his voice hard. “Darcy didn’t do it on purpose. If Erica had been paying attention, none of this would have happened.” A heavy, suffocating weight settled in my chest. I looked up, holding his gaze. “Why did you close the door on me, Calvin?” His jaw tightened, a flash of defensiveness crossing his features. “You… your face was covered in soot. It was unsettling. It was just a reflex.” A reflex. His tone was so casual, so light. A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. That door had been my only lifeline. I had spent nights wondering how he would justify it. I imagined profound apologies, panic-stricken excuses, a terrible mistake made in the heat of the moment. But I never expected it to be nothing more than an instinctual shrug. Even in his subconscious, I was nothing but a biological contaminant to be shut away. I bit my lip, turning my head toward the window. “I’m calling off the engagement. We’re over.” Calvin let out a sharp, irritated breath. “Look, I know I messed up, but do you have to be so dramatic? You know how my sensory issues are. I can’t handle dirty things. It’s not something I can control.” Dirty things. The words tasted like ash. I forced back the tears prickling behind my eyes, refusing to let him see me cry. Suddenly, a red apple landed on the blanket beside my hand. I looked up. Calvin gestured toward it with his chin, his arm still wrapped firmly around Darcy. In seven years, he had never willingly touched me. He claimed any physical intimacy triggered a physical panic response. Even passing me a set of keys or a glass of water required him to toss it across the room. I took a slow, agonizing breath and asked the one question that had been eating me alive. “If your touch aversion is so severe, Calvin… why are you holding her?” He didn’t even hesitate. “Darcy is fragile. She’s an exception.” I thought of the heavy canisters of disinfectant wipes he carried everywhere, the ritual cleanings I had to endure just to sit in his car. The last wall of my defense crumbled into dust. “Get out,” I whispered. “Both of you.” Calvin never came back to the hospital. On the day I was discharged, his mother, Mary, was waiting by the exit with a basket of seasonal flowers. She reached out, gently squeezing my uninjured arm, her eyes full of sorrow. “Erica, sweetie. How are you holding up?” I offered her a small, reassuring smile and shook my head. Mary sighed, her voice trembling. “You’ve always been too patient with him. He was never this obsessed with cleanliness before… and besides, if it hadn’t been for what you did for him back then…” “It’s fine, Mary,” I said softly, cutting her off. “He helped me out later in life, too. Let’s just say we’re even.” I gently squeezed her hand. “Calvin and I are over. I’m going to pack my things and move back to my mom’s place upstate.” Left with Mary’s heavy sighs echoing behind me, I slid into the car. But when the car pulled up to my street corner, I noticed a small crowd gathered outside my apartment building. I got out, adjusting my posture. Even a slight movement sent a sharp, pulling pain across the healing skin on my back. “Who is getting evicted?” someone in the crowd whispered. “No idea. Apparently, the owner is getting married, and they’re throwing out some girl who was staying here.” A murmur of judgmental pity rippled through the onlookers. A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I pushed through the crowd. My chest seized. Those were my belongings scattered on the damp pavement. My blood ran cold. I rushed forward as two hired movers dumped another box of my books onto the curb. “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled. They ignored me, continuing their work with mechanical indifference. The whispers around me grew louder. “Is that her?” “Yeah, the freeloading ex.” I burst through the front door. Calvin was sitting on the living room sofa, Darcy’s head resting comfortably on his shoulder. The moment Calvin saw me, his forehead creased with disapproval. “Did you sanitize before coming in?” Seven years of repressed resentment erupted in my chest. It was always this. Every time I walked through this door, there was never a “How was your day?” or “Are you okay?” It was always that sterile, clinical command: Did you sanitize? My eyes burned with dry heat, but I refused to let a single tear fall. “What about Darcy? Did she sanitize?” “Do you have to make everything an argument?” Calvin stood up, his tone laced with sharp annoyance. “Darcy is recovering. Her health is fragile right now. Why are you being so aggressive? Can’t you show a fraction of the grace and understanding she has?” With trembling fingers, I yanked back my sleeve, exposing the raw, angry pink scars tracking up my arm. “I had severe third-degree burns,” I spat, my voice shaking. “She has a few minor scrapes.” “From the moment the fire started, all you’ve cared about is her. Did you ever once stop to ask if I was going to live or die?” Darcy caught sight of my arm and let out a sharp gasp, burying her face in her hands. Calvin immediately shielded her eyes, rubbing her back in soothing circles. For a second, he looked momentarily speechless. “Erica, I…” “Why are you throwing my things onto the street?” I demanded. Darcy peeked out from behind his shoulder, her voice small and tentative. “I’m so sorry, Erica. My parents have been suffocating me to find someone and settle down. I was on the verge of a breakdown. They saw Calvin was pinned at the top of my text thread, and they assumed…” “It’s not your fault, Darcy,” Calvin said softly. He turned his cold gaze back to me. “I’m helping her out. Her family is traditional and suspicious, so we have to make the engagement look real. We’re using this place as our temporary home. I need you to stay somewhere else for a while.” How beautiful. What an exquisite display of devotion. I took a half-step back, my knees buckling under the sheer weight of his betrayal. I slid to the floor. My hands pressed against the hardwood, the dull pain barely registering. On my left ring finger rested the cheap, ill-fitting band Calvin had proposed with. It was a fixed size, too small for me, pinching my skin. Yet I had worn it proudly, cherishing it for months. Now, with every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged it off my finger. It left behind a deep, raw indentation of bruised purple. Just like our entire relationship. Years of endless compromises had left me with nothing but scars. Clink. I tossed the ring onto the floor right in front of them. “Are you insane?” Calvin stood up, staring at me as if I were a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “Is this really necessary? I told you, I’m just helping Darcy.” Darcy looked horrified. “I’m so sorry… I’ll help you gather your things,” she whimpered, tears spilling over her lashes as she ran past me toward the door. She looked utterly victimized as she fled the room. As she brushed past, a familiar scent hit me. It was Calvin’s signature sandalwood body wash. I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper, using the physical sting to hold back the tidal wave of grief. Calvin hurried after her. Even in his rush to comfort her, he instinctively took a wide path around me to avoid any contact. I pulled myself up off the floor and walked into my bedroom. Most of my life had already been cleared out. Or rather, tossed onto the curb like trash. I didn’t own many clothes, but the shelves were lined with rows of specialty cleaning products. Dozens of them, meticulously sorted and labeled by hand because Calvin’s germaphobia demanded absolute precision. Calvin’s cleanliness wasn’t just a preference; it was a dictatorship. Especially when it came to me. I wasn’t allowed to touch his personal care items without his explicit permission. Sharing a bottle of body wash was an unspoken, absolute taboo. I had spent seven years walking on eggshells, believing his condition was an agonizing trap he couldn’t escape. Only today did I realize: the rules didn’t apply to everyone. Someone else could slide into his life and become the exception effortlessly. He didn’t have to fight his biological instincts for Darcy. He welcomed her touch. I took a ragged breath, wiped the moisture from my face, grabbed my last duffel bag, and walked out. Outside, the crowd had doubled in size. Darcy was standing at the center of the sidewalk, wringing her hands helplessly. “Please, she’s my sister,” she was telling the neighbors. “She’s going through a hard time. Please don’t judge her…” The onlookers only grew more indignant on her behalf. “Honey, you’re the actual fiancée, right? You’re being way too sweet. That girl is clearly trying to leech off your man!” “You’re doing the right thing throwing her out. Change the locks immediately so she can’t sneak back in!” Darcy’s eyes widened, and she spotted me coming out of the lobby. “Erica!” She looked relieved, rushing over to grab my arm. “Calvin went to fetch the car. I made sure all your things were packed up safe.” She smiled warmly, but her fingers dug into my flesh. Her long, acrylic nails sank directly into my raw, unhealed burns. A blinding surge of pain shot up my arm. In sheer agony, I instinctively shoved her hand away. I hadn’t meant to use so much force, but she lost her balance and tumbled onto the concrete. Her white dress scraped against the dirt. She looked up at me, her wide eyes filling with tears of betrayal and confusion. “How could you…” she whimpered. Before I could even open my mouth to explain, a violent shove hit me from behind. “Have you no shame?” an older neighbor yelled, pushing me. “She was trying to help you, and you assault her?” A barrage of insults rained down on me. The sudden impact flared the burns on my back, leaving me gasping and unable to stand. Two people quickly rushed to help Darcy to her feet. “What is going on here?!” Calvin’s voice cut through the noise as he broke through the crowd, immediately wrapping his arms around Darcy to inspect her for injuries. Then, his gaze fell on me, still curled on the ground. His voice was freezing. “Stop acting, Erica. This is completely unacceptable.” Darcy clutched his sleeve, trembling. “Calvin, please don’t be mad at her. Erica’s just been… sensitive. Ever since she was assaulted when we were kids, she gets triggered so easily…” She abruptly cut herself off, gasping as if she had accidentally let slip a deep secret. My heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless void. The collective gasp of the crowd faded into white noise. All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. Two of Calvin’s hired guards hauled me up and forced me toward the utility van parked in the alley. I looked at Calvin, my soul screaming, Did you know? Did you always know? Darcy had once told me she shared my childhood trauma with him. I had thought his extreme germaphobia around me stemmed from a misplaced desire to protect my boundaries. But the cold disgust in his eyes proved otherwise. Before I could process anything, they brought me to the back of the building where a large, industrial heat-sanitizing chamber stood—the kind used for deep pest and smoke restoration. “Put her in there to clean her up,” Darcy whispered to the guards, just loud enough for me to hear. My mind went completely blank. A primal terror seized me, and my body began to shake uncontrollably. I watched in horror as the heavy, insulated door of the chamber loomed closer, and then I was shoved inside. The temperature inside was already climbing past a stifling hundred and ten degrees. In that airtight steel box, every breath felt like inhaling fire, scorching my throat. I collapsed into the corner, the heat radiating off the metal walls and ripping open the healing wounds on my back. Sweat poured into the raw flesh, an agonizing chemical burn. I clawed at my palms until my nails snapped, screams dying in my parched throat. Memories flashed behind my eyes in disjointed fragments: Calvin, a teenager, throwing rocks to chase away the high school bullies, looking at my tear-stained face and awkwardly tossing a cherry lollipop into my lap. Calvin cornered in an alley by a gang; me screaming to draw them away, only to be dragged into the shadows myself. Calvin standing exactly ten feet away, throwing a pack of sanitizing wipes at my feet, telling me to wipe down again, and again, because it “wasn’t clean enough.” … By the time the heavy door finally clicked open, I could no longer move. When I woke up, I was in the ICU. Tubes ran up my nose, and my entire torso was wrapped in thick layers of sterile gauze. The nurse told me my fever had spiked to a lethal hundred and six degrees, and the burns on my back had developed a severe, systemic infection. I stared blankly at the acoustic ceiling tiles and rasped, “Transfer me. I want to go home. Upstate.” By the time Bridget rushed in, I had already signed the transfer paperwork. She wept, screaming curses at Calvin and Darcy, but I didn’t say a word. I had no words left. As the ambulance sped down the interstate, away from the city, I asked Bridget to take the SIM card out of my phone and throw it out the window. With that tiny click of plastic, Calvin was erased from my life. At a luxury hotel downtown, Darcy, wearing a pristine, long-train white gown, clung to Calvin’s arm as they smiled and greeted the wedding guests. “Calvin, do you like my dress? Do I look beautiful?” she asked, looking up at him with adoration. Calvin glanced down, giving a tight nod. “You look beautiful.” But his mind drifted. He suddenly remembered the stack of bridal magazines he had seen on Erica’s nightstand over the years. She had never once brought them up to him. That mandatory ten-foot gap had quietly eroded the bridge of their shared life until there was nothing left to stand on. Calvin cleared his throat. “Darcy… where did Erica go after she left?” Darcy stiffened for a fraction of a second. “I’m sure she packed her things and moved out. Don’t worry about it.” “Right. I only wanted to teach her a lesson anyway. Make her fall back in line.” “Teach her a lesson?” “Yeah. Obviously, I didn’t actually want her locked in that heat chamber. That would kill someone.” Calvin chuckled slightly at the absurdity of the thought. He pulled Darcy closer. “Come on. It’s time to head to the altar.” Darcy went quiet for a moment, then leaned in. “Calvin, when we exchange rings, can you say a few extra vows? My mother is watching in the front row.” “Okay.” The officiant called for the rings. Darcy extended her manicured hand, and Calvin slid the gold band toward her finger. Bam! The double doors of the ballroom burst open. Calvin’s mother, Mary, marched down the aisle, her face pale with fury, and delivered a stinging slap across his face. “Erica is in the ICU!” she shrieked. “How dare you lock her in a heat chamber? How dare you call her dirty? You selfish monster! Do you have any idea that she was assaulted all those years ago because she was protecting you?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529620”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Inside Holden’s phone, tucked away in his notes app, there was a folder named “The Moon and Sixpence”. Under “Sixpence”, he filed away the logistics of our shared life—the dry, domestic dread. Reminders to pay the electric bill, order gourmet gift baskets for his business partners, and schedule my parents’ annual physicals. Under “The Moon”, however, was a meticulously curated index of Talia, his adoptive sister. Talia: wants the new limited-edition vinyl. Talia: loves contestant number fifteen on the survival show. Talia: detests cedarwood perfume. Every time I confronted him about it, he would gently wipe my tears away and repeat the same hollow mantra: they were just siblings. There was nothing to worry about. The nineteenth time I questioned him, he didn’t offer an excuse. Instead, he slid a diamond ring onto my finger. But yesterday, at the bridal boutique on the Upper East Side, the heavy zipper of my lace gown snagged. No matter how delicately the stylist tugged, the metal refused to budge. Embarrassed, I turned my head toward the plush velvet sofa where Holden sat. “Holden, can you come help me for a second?” He began to push himself up, but before he could take a step, his phone chimed. It was the custom ringtone he had assigned exclusively to “The Moon”. His feet froze. He stared down at the screen, his gaze instantly locking. “Mary, something urgent came up at the office,” he said, not even looking up. “They need me to make the final call.” “But the dress—” “Just pick whichever one you want. As long as you’re wearing it, I’ll love it.” Without a single glance at my twisted posture or the half-zipped silk binding me tight, he turned on his heel and strode out of the boutique. I watched his car disappear around the corner of the avenue. Beside me, the young stylist was whispering apologies, her hands trembling. Looking at my reflection in the triple-pane mirror—framed in pristine, mocking white—I reached behind my back, gripped the stubborn metal slide, and yanked it with everything I had. The delicate French lace tore. Tiny freshwater pearls ripped from the fabric, scattering across the dark hardwood floor like spilled teeth, taking five years of my devotion with them. I stepped out of the ruined gown and forced a small, polite smile at the frozen stylist. “Don’t worry about the damage. Send the bill directly to the legal department at Douglas Group.” … The stylist’s voice shook. “Ms. Wood… this is a custom couture gown. Are you sure Mr. Douglas…” “He’ll pay,” I cut her off quietly. It was surprising how easy it was to let go once the thread finally snapped. I changed back into my own white t-shirt and faded jeans, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the boutique. The oppressive midsummer heat of Manhattan hit me like a physical wall. My phone buzzed in my palm. It was a text from Holden. “Mary, this issue at the office is really turning into a headache. Put whatever dress you want on my black card.” “I’ll take you to that omakase place you love tonight. Be good. Wait for me.” In his eyes, I was still the naive girl who could be pacified with a high-end dinner and a soft pat on the head. I didn’t reply. Out of habit, my thumb drifted to Instagram, clicking on the little red notification dot. The very first post on my feed was from Talia, uploaded exactly one minute prior. The photo showed a man’s hand carefully unboxing a rare, imported collectible figurine. On that wrist was the vintage Rolex I had spent three months tracking down for Holden’s last birthday. So this was the “urgent corporate crisis” that required his personal executive sign-off. I stared at the image for a few silent seconds, then dialed his mother’s number. “Mary, dear? Have you finished the fitting?” “Hello, Mrs. Douglas. I’m calling to let you know that the wedding is off. You can cancel the venue.” There was a sharp silence on the other end, followed by the clink of a porcelain teacup being set heavily onto its saucer. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” her voice cooled instantly. “Holden runs an entire multinational conglomerate. It is completely normal for him to have last-minute emergencies. As his future wife, you need to learn some grace and support him, rather than tossing around threats of calling off the wedding every time you feel neglected.” She paused, her tone dripping with quiet condescension. “If you want to be the matriarch of the Douglas family, this childish behavior simply won’t do.” In the past, I would have swallowed the humiliation, offering a soft apology to keep the peace. But today, the armor of my patience was entirely gone. “You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Douglas. Which is why I am stepping down. I’ll mail a full inventory of the engagement gifts back to your estate by tomorrow morning.” Before she could utter another word, I ended the call. Then, I dialed my dad. “Mary? Sweetheart, are you exhausted from the fitting? Your mom is in the kitchen making your favorite pot roast right now. We’re waiting for you to come home.” Hearing his gravelly, warm voice, the tightness in my chest finally fractured. A thick, hot wave of emotion rushed up my throat. “Dad,” I whispered. “I’m not getting married.” There was a sharp clatter on the other end—the sound of a metal spatula hitting the kitchen tile. My dad was silent for two long seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, wrapping around me like a shield. “Okay. If you don’t want to do it, we won’t do it. Your happiness is the only thing that matters to us, Mary. If he made you feel small, you come right back home. I’ll meet you at the train station.” My eyes stung. I blinked back the tears, tilting my head up toward the blinding afternoon sun. “Okay. I’m coming home.” I walked toward the subway station. On the brick wall beside the entrance, a flyer was taped: a recruitment poster for the foreign exchange program at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Five years ago, when Holden suffered a severe stomach hemorrhage from corporate drinking, I had torn up my acceptance letter to that very school, choosing instead to stay by his bedside and learn how to cook bland, low-sodium meals. Back then, pale and trembling in his hospital bed, he had gripped my hand and told me he was the luckiest man alive to have found me. But I didn’t want to be his lucky charm anymore. It was time to find my own moon. I pulled out my phone, opened the academy’s portal, and submitted my application. I spent the night at my parents’ house, laying out the truth of the broken engagement and my plans for Paris. My mother held me tightly, her tears dampening my hair, whispering that they would back me no matter where I went. The next morning, as I took the trash down to the curb, Holden’s sleek black sedan pulled up to the driveway. The door swung open, and he stepped out, his brow furrowed in frustration. Behind him, Talia slipped out of the passenger side. He reached out, trying to grab my wrist. “Mary, why didn’t you come home last night? Your phone was off all night. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” His voice carried the familiar, exasperated tone of a parent dealing with a petulant child. I stepped back, letting his hand fall through empty air. My gaze was entirely flat. “Didn’t your mother tell you? I’ve already—” Before I could finish, Talia peeked out from behind his shoulder, her doll-like eyes rimmed with red. “Mary, please don’t be angry with Holden.” She sniffled, her voice small and trembling. “Yesterday was entirely my fault. He was just helping me pick up a package. I even skipped my dance company’s dress rehearsal today just so I could come here and apologize to you face-to-face.” “There’s no need,” I said, my voice deadpan. “The two of you share a beautiful bond. You don’t owe an outsider like me any explanations.” Holden’s face darkened, his patience visibly wearing thin. “Talia skipped a crucial rehearsal just to make things right with you, Mary. Why do you have to be so bitter?” he snapped. “Our wedding is weeks away, and you’re running off to your parents’ place over a misunderstanding. Think about how they’ll worry. Get in the car. We’ll talk about this at home.” I had no energy to argue with him on a gravel driveway. But my passport and visa documents were still in the safe at our shared apartment. Without them, I couldn’t even secure my travel boarding pass. I walked toward the sedan and reached for the front passenger door. Talia suddenly chimed in. “Oh, Mary, do you mind if I sit in the front? I didn’t eat breakfast and my motion sickness is really acting up.” Without a word, I let go of the handle and climbed into the backseat. The ride was a suffocating exercise in silence. In the front, Talia chattered endlessly about her dance routines and her favorite choreographers, and Holden replied to every single prompt with effortless warmth. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, exhausted monosyllables he usually offered during our dinners. They weren’t even blood-related. I should have opened my eyes years ago. Talia popped open the glove compartment to look for a mint. “Oh?” From the very back of the compartment, she pulled out a delicate, vintage pearl hair clip. She turned around, her face lit up with delight. “I thought I lost this weeks ago! I can’t believe it was in your car the whole time, Holden.” Holden glanced at it, a fond smile touching his lips. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your neck.” My gaze drifted to the pearl clip. The air conditioning in the car suddenly felt sub-zero, sending a physical shiver straight to my chest. Five years ago, on the night I finally gathered the courage to tell Holden I loved him, I had been wearing that exact same pearl clip. He had stared at my hair, his eyes melting with a warmth I thought was meant for me, before whispering “yes”. I had spent half a decade believing we were a match made in heaven. Now, the puzzle pieces fell into place with a sickening click. I had been nothing but a cheap placeholder. The only reason I had ever stood a chance at being next to him was because I wore a hair clip that belonged to Talia. I had lived in a stolen dream for five years. Holden didn’t deny her words. He kept his eyes on the road, navigating the morning traffic, entirely oblivious to the absolute emotional carnage occurring in his backseat. When we finally arrived at our apartment, the front door was wide open. The loud, violent thud of sledgehammers echoed from within. The living room was a war zone of drywall dust and plastic tarps. Three construction workers were systematically tearing down the plaster walls of my painting studio. A massive hole had already been punctured through the wood paneling, filling the air with white powder. I froze, my mind struggling to process the scene. “Oh, right, I forgot to mention,” Holden said casually, stepping over a pile of debris. “The floors in Talia’s personal dance studio warped, so I decided to convert your art room into a rehearsal space for her. You rarely use it anyway, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Talia bypassed me like a joyous child, stepping into the ruined space to point and gesture her layout ideas to the contractor. Holden watched her, his face soft and deeply proud. A wave of profound, physical nausea hit me. “Holden,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “My parents put up half the down payment for this apartment so I wouldn’t feel like a beggar in your house. Don’t you think you should have asked me before destroying my space?” Holden’s expression turned instantly to irritation. “Mary, do you really have to bring up money right now? I can wire your parents double their investment this afternoon. We’re going to be family. Why are you keeping score?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. I walked past him, stepping through the plaster dust into our bedroom, and gathered my passport, birth certificate, and legal documents into my bag. “Then please have your accountant wire that money to my father’s account immediately. Once the funds clear, you can turn this entire building into her playground for all I care.” I grabbed my bag, slammed the door, and left the noise of the hammers behind me. When I reached my parents’ house, intending to tell them I had retrieved my documents, I found the house completely empty. Then, my phone started vibrating violently. It was the family group chat. My aunt had forwarded a trending local news video, tagging me repeatedly. My chest tightened. With trembling fingers, I tapped the play button. The video was taken from a distance, shaky and silent. In the frame, my aging parents were kneeling on the wet gravel driveway outside the Douglas family’s massive estate in Greenwich. Scattered around them on the ground were the silk-wrapped engagement boxes we had tried to return. Mrs. Douglas stood on the grand stone portico above them, flanked by two burly security guards, her face twisted in sneering disgust as she pointed her finger at them. Tears instantly spilled over my eyelashes, burning my cheeks. I sprinted out of the house, waving down a passing yellow cab. “Greenwich! The Douglas estate on Ridge Road! Please, step on it!” By the time the taxi neared the estate gates, a cold drizzle had begun to fall. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw my parents sitting on a low concrete retaining wall by the roadside. My dad’s trousers were caked with mud at the knees, his head buried in his hands. “Dad! Mom!” I screamed, throwing myself out of the cab and running toward them. “Mary? What are you doing here?” My mom frantically wiped her eyes, trying to hide the swelling of her eyelids. “Why did they make you kneel?” I sobbed, kneeling down to brush the gravel and dirt from my dad’s knees. My dad took my hands in his, his fingers cold and trembling. “We went to return the heirloom jewelry and the dowry check, Mary. The guards wouldn’t let us in. Then Mrs. Douglas came out. She said… she said if we wanted to call off the wedding and keep our dignity, we had to show proper respect for insulting their name. She threw the boxes into the mud and told us that small-town nobodies don’t get to reject the Douglass without paying a price.” He managed a weak, heartbreaking smile. “It’s just a knee on the ground, sweetheart. If it means you get to walk away clean from that family, your old man would kneel a thousand times.” My heart felt as though it were being slowly ground into dust. The air in my lungs tasted like copper. I took my parents home, cleaned them up, and made sure they were safe. That evening, I received my official acceptance letter from the Beaux-Arts de Paris. I immediately began preparing for my departure. I had already wasted five years of my youth on a terrible mistake; I wasn’t going to let them steal another second of my future. I ignored every single call and text from Holden. He sent a flurry of messages claiming he was coming to find me, but a sudden executive trip to London kept him out of the country. A week later, my phone rang from an unknown corporate number. “Is this Mary Wood? This is the legal department at Douglas Group.” “Speaking.” “We are calling to inform you that Ms. Talia Douglas has granted exclusive commercial licensing rights for her painting, “Summer Night”, to Douglas Group. We have flagged your pending portfolio submission for the European art circuit, and noted that your piece is a direct plagiarism of her work.” “If you proceed with your submission, Douglas Group will file an immediate injunction, block your international travel visas, and sue you for thirty million dollars in damages.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “That is impossible. I painted “Summer Night” over three months. I have every single preliminary sketch and canvas draft in my possession.” “Ms. Wood, Ms. Douglas posted the completed piece on her verified social media accounts last week. In terms of public copyright timeline, we hold absolute precedence.” I hung up and opened Instagram. Talia had spent the last year building an online persona as an effortless, artistic heiress. Her account was verified, boasting hundreds of thousands of followers. And there it was. A post from six days ago showing “her” completed canvas. Within hours, the hashtag #MaryWoodPlagiarist began trending locally. Someone had even leaked the video of my parents kneeling outside the Douglas estate, but the narrative had been viciously warped: “Plagiarist’s parents beg on their knees after failed attempt to blackmail billionaire family into marriage.” The comment sections were a toxic wasteland of threats and insults. Someone had already leaked my parents’ home address. Before I could even process the horror, heavy, violent boots began pounding against our front door. “Get out of there, you frauds!” “Thieving family! Kneeling like dogs to get a payout! Disgusting!” My parents, unaware of the online storm, had been preparing to go grocery shopping. They were forced back inside by a small, hostile crowd gathering on our lawn. My dad sat on the sofa, his hands covering his face, while my mother wept silently in the corner. I drew in a long, shaky breath and dialed Holden’s personal line. He picked up on the second ring. “Holden, I painted that piece in my own studio. Why are you letting Talia do this to me?” I demanded, fighting to keep my voice from cracking. There was a long pause on the line, followed by a heavy sigh. “Mary, Talia just really liked your painting. She posted it on a whim. She didn’t know you were using it for your portfolio.” “So she gets to steal it?” “You have to understand her position,” Holden said, his tone entirely defensive. “She has half a million followers. Next week, she’s auditioning for the Paris Opera Ballet. If the public finds out she took someone else’s work, her entire career is over before it starts.” “But you,” he continued softly, “you’re just an independent artist. You don’t have a public profile. This won’t actually affect your life…” The words caught in my throat like rusted nails. Every syllable he uttered felt like a physical blow. Outside, a heavy rock shattered the glass of our front porch window. The dry rose petals in the entryway vase vibrated from the impact, scattering silently onto the dusty table. Five years of devotion, entirely hollowed out. “So I’m supposed to take the fall for her?” I asked, my voice completely flat. He let out a soft, relieved chuckle. “It’s not that dramatic, Mary. Just issue a brief public statement saying you used her work as inspiration. Once you do that, I’ll personally have the legal team drop the lawsuit.” I looked at my mother’s silver hair, then at the shattered glass on the floor. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll post it.” “I’ll upload the statement tonight at eight o’clock. You can check it yourself, Holden.” “I knew you’d understand, sweetheart. You’ve always been the sensible one. I’ll bring you those roasted chestnuts you like from the city when I get back tomorrow.” I hung up. I immediately called a local real estate agent and listed my parents’ house for a quick cash sale. Within three hours, we had packed our entire lives into six suitcases. At seven o’clock, I walked my parents onto a southbound train to stay with my aunt in North Carolina, far away from the madness. By eight o’clock, I was sitting alone in the terminal at JFK Airport. I opened my laptop, logged into my cloud storage, and retrieved the raw time-lapse videos of my painting process. I had always kept a digital archive of my work from start to finish. If Holden had ever cared enough to look at my art, he would have known that. I packaged the video files alongside the recorded audio of my phone call with Holden, and emailed them directly to every major arts publication, national news outlet, and the admissions board at the École des Beaux-Arts. Then, I posted the entire archive to my social media accounts. My caption was simple: “I won’t be paying thirty million dollars. But I will see you in court.” I shut down my laptop, picked up my carry-on, and boarded the flight to Paris. Meanwhile, Holden’s private jet had just touched down in New York. He instructed his assistant to go uptown and buy a box of the gourmet chestnuts Mary loved, before personally stopping at a bakery to pick up a box of French macarons for Talia. As he signed the receipt at the bakery counter, his phone buzzed with an alert from Instagram. “Finally came to her senses,” he murmured with a faint smile, opening the notification. But the screen did not display an apology. As the time-lapse video of Mary painting and the clear, damning audio of his own voice filled the high-end bakery, the smile died on Holden’s face. He frantically dialed Mary’s number. A cold, mechanical voice answered: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529619”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Once again, my distant husband and son forgot my birthday. The bullet comments floating across my vision rushed to defend them, just like they always did: [This was definitely an accident.] [They already have a surprise waiting for her!] [It’s just that Thomas’s grad student was harassed tonight. As her doctoral advisor, of course he had to deal with it right away.] [Distant men are just bad with words. He hasn’t learned how to set boundaries or say no.] [She needs to give them more time. Don’t ruin it by making a scene.] I let out a soft sigh, choosing to compromise once again. I lit the single candle by myself and celebrated another year of my life alone. Eight years of marriage to Thomas, and not once had he or our son been there for my birthday. I never understood why. But tonight, just as I blew out the candle and closed my eyes for a final, desperate wish, my mother arrived, looking worn out from her long journey. Seeing me sitting alone in front of a table of cold food, her eyes welled with tears before mine even could. “Jennifer, have you really been happy all these years?” I froze. I stared at the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. And in that moment, I realized: genuine care leaves a mark. It isn’t invisible. … A sharp, stinging ache hit the bridge of my nose. During the first two years of our marriage, Thomas was always too busy, always tied up with some urgent project. The comments always excused him. “It’s good that he’s driven,” they wrote. “He just doesn’t care for empty rituals. He’s just quiet.” So I swallowed it. Then I got pregnant with our son, Justin. The comments assured me that a baby would melt Thomas’s frozen exterior, that he would finally shift his focus to our family. And I believed them. But after Justin was born, nothing changed. Even Justin, whom I nearly died giving birth to, slowly grew to replicate his father’s chill. He followed in Thomas’s footsteps, ignoring my birthdays and shutting me out, becoming what the comments affectionately called “the little iceberg.” I couldn’t comprehend it. I spiraled into self-doubt, and more than once, I thought about walking away. But the comments kept insisting they loved me. “They just have emotional blocks,” they wrote. “Have some patience. Give it time.” [Thomas cares about you. Look, even though he’s busy, he always tries to make it up to you later.] [Aside from his communication issues, he really is a good man.] [Little Justin is just naturally quiet. What son doesn’t love his own mother?] Over the years, there were only fleeting moments—fractions of a second—where I actually felt cared for. Most of the time, I was just picking through broken glass, searching for a stray grain of sugar. I had grown used to the taste of blood. I had learned to accept it. But now, my mother’s question echoed relentlessly in my mind. Was I really happy? I looked down at the dinner. It had gone cold during the hours of waiting. It wasn’t inedible, but it had lost all flavor. If I ate it, my heart would only grow as cold as the plate. That was how the days went. “They say a mother always knows,” my mom whispered, her voice cracking. “Every year on your birthday, my chest gets so tight I can barely breathe. But every time I called to ask, you told me everything was fine.” She stopped speaking abruptly. Her eyes fell on my frame, swallowed up by the oversized sweater I wore. She gasped slightly. “How have you lost so much weight?” She quickly brushed away a tear, trying to hide it from me. “You’re still the same little girl who keeps everything bottled up inside. Jennifer, if you’re not happy here, just come home with me.” I glanced down at my phone. My text thread with Thomas lay open. The last message was still my own, asking when they would be home. In that quiet space, the memories flooded in. I thought about how our chat history was essentially a monologue—me sharing little pieces of my day, and him replying with a single “K” or an occasional thumbs-up emoji. I thought about the time I tried to take Justin to the amusement park, only for my seven-year-old to look at me with a cold sneer: “Mom, you’re an adult. Can you stop being so childish?” I thought about my shopping apps, filled only with things for them, while they had never once surprised me with anything. I looked up, meeting my mother’s gaze, and suddenly, the fog cleared. I didn’t want to eat this cold dinner anymore. I didn’t want to live this cold life. So, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. The moment the word left my mouth, both my mother and the stream of comments fell silent. My mother hadn’t expected me to agree so decisively. But the comments across my vision began to scroll at a manic pace. [Don’t do anything rash! Thomas and Justin are already on their way home!] [Is she seriously running back to her mother just because they missed one birthday?] [I really don’t get her. Why can’t she just have a little more patience?] [She’s probably just throwing a tantrum. Once Thomas sweet-talks her a bit, she’ll be fine. After all, he hasn’t actually done anything unforgivable, and Justin is still so young. How could she possibly leave him?] My mother asked hesitantly, “Are you sure, Jennifer? You’re not just saying this because you’re hurt?” I shook my head. Once, a tiny spark of hope might have remained. But eight years had successfully ground every ounce of anticipation into dust. I had listened to the comments for so long, forgetting the simplest truth: if someone truly cares about you, you don’t have to search for the proof. My mother didn’t ask another question. She walked straight into my bedroom and began packing my bags. She had barely crossed the threshold when the front door clicked open. Thomas and Justin stepped inside, finally home. Behind them stood a young woman—one of Thomas’s graduate students. The rims of her eyes were red, as if she had just been crying. The comments immediately provided an explanation: [Don’t get the wrong idea! Clara, his student, was harassed by someone tonight. Thomas is just awkward with words and didn’t know how to comfort her, so he brought her back where it’s safe.] [Wait, Thomas actually bought her a cake this time! He really is trying to change.] I glanced at the bakery box in Thomas’s hand. Through the clear plastic lid, I saw the topping: fresh mangoes. I am severely allergic to mangoes. I pulled my gaze away, my expression completely flat. The student immediately began to stammer an apology. “Hi, Jennifer. My name is Clara. I really didn’t mean to impose on Professor Dalton tonight. I really hope we didn’t miss your birthday dinner.” She bit her lower lip, glancing up at Thomas. There was timidity in her eyes, a touch of shyness, and a clear, unmistakable adoration that I recognized instantly. Over the years, I had seen plenty of girls look at him like that. It wasn’t a surprise. But Clara was the first one Thomas had ever brought across our threshold. I remained silent. Thomas set the cake down on the dining table. “Let’s cut the cake. Consider it your birthday celebration. Give a bigger slice to Clara. She likes sweet things; it’ll help cheer her up.” Our son, Justin, immediately chimed in. “Yeah, Clara had a really bad night. Eating something sweet will make her feel better. Mom, hurry up and cut it.” He reached out to pull my hand, but I quietly stepped back, letting his fingers slip through the air. “I already had cake,” I said calmly. “If you want some, cut it yourselves.” Justin’s face immediately fell. He glared at me, his small brow furrowing. “Are you throwing a fit? We literally rushed all the way back to be with you. Besides, Dad was busy handling an emergency. He was only a little late.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. In their eyes, every other person and every other task took precedence over me. Not once in eight years had they ever made me the priority. Just then, my mother wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom, her face set in a hard, frozen mask. “Jennifer,” she said, her voice like steel. “We’re leaving.” Thomas stared at my mother and the suitcase, a flicker of confusion crossing his dark eyes. “Mom?” Then he glanced at Clara. A brief wave of embarrassment washed over his features before he turned a harsh frown on me. “What kind of scene are you making now?” The comments were still typing frantically, defending his ignorance. But I looked him straight in the eyes, my voice steady and quiet. “Thomas, I want a divorce.” The words hung in the air. For a few seconds, the room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Justin was the first to break it, his face twisting with irritation. “Mom, are you serious? Just because Dad and I were a little late for your birthday, you’re divorcing him? Since when did you get so petty? If you’re going to be like this, I’m staying with Dad.” Across my abdomen, the faint scar from my C-section began to throb with a phantom ache. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a sharp, irritated breath. “If you’re angry because I missed dinner, I apologize,” he said, his voice cold. Clara looked completely mortified, her eyes wide with tearful distress. “I’m so sorry, Jennifer,” she stammered. “This is all my fault. Please don’t ruin your marriage because of me.” The comments erupted in outrage against me: [Is she losing her mind?] [Demanding a divorce over a missed birthday? She’s literally willing to abandon her own child over this.] Thomas subtly stepped in front of Clara, shielding her with his frame. When he spoke to her, his tone softened with a rare, clumsy gentleness. “This has nothing to do with you,” he murmured. “This is between Jennifer and me.” Watching them, a bitter realization settled deep in my chest. The great iceberg, Thomas Dalton, was indeed capable of melting. It just wasn’t for me. “What on earth have I been holding onto all this time?” Once he was sure Clara was calm, Thomas turned back to me. His eyes were devoid of any warmth. “Have you actually thought this through? Honestly, I don’t care either way. If you want a divorce, fine. It’s up to you.” Having witnessed him defending the other girl, my mother’s temper boiled over. She pointed a trembling finger at Thomas’s chest. “You’re damn right she’s divorcing you!” she cried. “You couldn’t even bother to show up for my daughter’s birthday, and now you have the nerve to bring your mistress straight into her home? I raised my daughter for over twenty years, cherishing her, only for you to treat her like garbage. How dare you!” At the word “mistress”, Clara’s face went pale. Shock and humiliation flashed across her features. “Ma’am, it’s not like that between Professor Dalton and me!” she whimpered. “I would never…” Realizing her words were useless, she burst into fresh tears and ran out the front door. Thomas tried to grab her arm but missed. His face darkened to a thunderous shade. “Mom, you’ve completely misread the situation,” he snapped. He immediately pulled out his phone to text Clara. As he unlocked it, I caught a glimpse of his screen—it was a solid wall of blue text bubbles. In just one evening, he had written more words to her than he had sent to me in an entire month. The comments rolled by, blaming my mother for overreacting: [Clara is so innocent. She literally just got called a home-wrecker for no reason.] [Our girl’s mother is way too rash. What kind of mother encourages her daughter to get a divorce? Life as a divorcee isn’t easy.] [I wish Jennifer would just open her eyes and stop misunderstanding him.] I watched the irritation and disgust swirling in Thomas’s eyes. For the first time in eight years, my mind felt perfectly clear. Seeing Clara run away crying, Justin panicked. “Grandma, why are you bullying Clara?” he yelled. “You’re just as awful as Mom!” My mother’s hand, which had been holding mine, flinched. Her eyes filled with hurt. “Justin Dalton, you can hate me all you want,” she said, her voice trembling. “But you do not speak to your mother that way! Do you have any idea how much she suffered just to bring you into this world?” I stood frozen. Perhaps the memory was too painful, but I realized I hadn’t thought about my pregnancy in years. I only remembered the doctors telling me my body was too weak, that the risk of complications during delivery was dangerously high. I had to endure endless hormone injections to save the pregnancy. My stomach had been covered in dark, bruised needle marks. Every time my mother came to visit, she would break down in tears. She would ask me if it hurt, while Thomas had simply looked away and said, coldly: “Maybe we should just forget about the baby.” Back then, the comments had praised him. “Look how much he loves you,” they wrote. “He cares about your pain so much he’d rather not have the baby.” Now, looking back, I saw it for what it truly was: complete indifference. He didn’t love me, so he didn’t care about the child we were creating. But Justin was stubborn, inheriting his father’s cold defiance. Before I could stop him, he lunged forward and shoved my mother. “It was her choice to have me!” he screamed. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t want her as my mom anyway!” My mother lost her footing. Her back slammed hard against the sharp corner of the sideboard with a sickening thud. Anger flared hot in my chest. I slapped Justin’s hand away. “Why did you push your grandmother?” I roared. “You don’t want me? Well, I don’t want you either!” At seven years old, Justin clutched his hand, staring at me in absolute disbelief. His eyes welled with tears. He turned and bolted out of the house. Thomas locked his phone, his voice dropping to sub-zero temperatures. “Are you satisfied now? If you want a divorce, fine. We’ll get the paperwork started.” Without another word, he walked out after our son. My mother was clutching her lower back in agony. I helped her up and took her to the hospital alone. The ER doctor said she had severely strained her lower back and needed strict bed rest for a few days. I got her admitted to a room, and then I went straight to a family lawyer to draft the divorce papers. “I don’t want custody,” I told the lawyer. “And I’m willing to take less of the marital assets as long as it covers child support.” During the three days I spent by my mother’s hospital bed, Thomas didn’t send a single text. Not a word. It wasn’t until the afternoon I received the final draft of the agreement that Thomas and Justin finally showed up. “Your mother spread rumors at the university, didn’t she?” Thomas demanded the moment he walked in, his voice tight. “Telling everyone Clara is a home-wrecker who destroyed our family?” I stared at him, confused, but the comments quickly caught me up: [Poor Clara. She got branded as a home-wrecker, and now the whole campus is talking about it.] [She couldn’t handle the shame and actually drank pesticide to end her life. Thank god Thomas got there in time to save her.] [Jennifer’s mom went way too far this time.] I looked at my mother, who was sitting up in bed with a bewildered expression. I stepped into the doorway, blocking them from entering. “My mother would never do that!” I hissed. Thomas let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Your mother is the only one who called Clara a mistress. If it wasn’t her, then who? Do you realize this is ruining Clara’s reputation? It could end her career before it even starts. Jennifer, your mother doesn’t understand academia, but you do.” I stayed quiet, which only fueled his impatience. Then, his tone did something unexpected—it softened into a plea. “Clara and I are innocent,” he said. “I’m asking you, Jennifer. Please, just issue a statement and clear her name.” I stared at him, stunned. In all our years together, Thomas had been a man of immense pride. He never bent, and he never, ever begged. But now, for Clara, he was willing to lower himself. A cold laugh escaped my lips. “Thomas, can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel a single thing for her?” He went quiet. “We are professor and student,” he said finally. “I know where the line is.” I laughed again, the sound hollow. “You know where the line is? You missed my birthday to spend the evening with her. You send her more texts in a day than you’ve sent me in a month. And now, you’re dragging me to her defense just to save her reputation. Thomas, she already means more to you than I ever did as your wife.” How pathetic I had been, waiting for this iceberg of a man to slowly thaw for me. I had forgotten that when someone truly loves you, they don’t need to be forced to change. They just do. His face tightened, embarrassment morphing into defensive anger. “That’s absurd,” he snapped. “You’re projecting. Jennifer, why are you suddenly keeping score? You never used to care about any of this.” “Ah. So all my silent compromises, all my swallowed hurts—to him, they were just proof that I didn’t care.” He had known all along, yet he had let my heart shatter, piece by piece, without lifting a finger. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I turned to walk away. But Thomas grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron, and dragged me down the hall toward Clara’s room. “Jennifer, she tried to kill herself because of what your mother said. You are going to clear her name right now.” I fought back, pulling with everything I had, but his fingers were locked tight. Even Justin threw his weight against me, grabbing my leg so I couldn’t move. Inside the room, my mother heard the scuffle. She tried to get out of bed, but her back gave out. As I was dragged into Clara’s room, I heard the dull, heavy sound of my mother falling from her bed. Panic seized me. “Thomas, please! Let me go check on my mother first, and then I’ll write whatever you want! Please!” I begged, tears finally spilling over. Thomas didn’t even flinch. “Clara can’t wait,” he said coldly. “There are nurses here. Your mother will be fine.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Thomas had grown up an orphan. In the eight years we were married, my mother had loved him like her own son. She had cooked for him, cared for him, worried about him. And this was how he repaid her. When we entered Clara’s room, she whimpered at the sight of me, burying her face beneath the hospital blankets. Thomas rushed to her side, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Don’t be scared. She’s here to clear things up.” My mind was entirely on my mother, so I apologized mechanically, reading the words they wanted to hear. I penned the retraction letter exactly as Thomas dictated. The moment it was done, I pulled the folded divorce papers from my bag and laid them on the bedside table. “I did what you asked,” I said, my voice dead. “Now sign this, just like we agreed.” Thomas stared at the papers, his body freezing. “Jennifer, you know I didn’t actually want this,” he muttered. “We have Justin to think about. And with everything that just happened with Clara, a divorce right now would look terrible…” I wanted to laugh at the sheer irony. Even now, his primary concern was how a divorce would affect Clara’s reputation. “Do you honestly think we can keep living like this, Thomas?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Thomas noticed, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. Justin, seeing how pale and hollow I looked, murmured a quiet, hesitant, “Mom?” But before he could step closer, Clara suddenly grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on her nightstand, aiming it at her wrist. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “I’m the one ruining everything!” Thomas, who had taken half a step toward me, veered away instantly. He threw his arms around her to wrest the knife away. When he looked back at me, his eyes had returned to their usual, icy indifference. He signed the papers with one hand while holding her down with the other. “I hope you don’t regret this,” he spit out. A massive weight lifted from my chest. Ignoring the frantic comments screaming across my screen, I smiled. “I won’t,” I said. “Never.” I turned on my heel and walked out. I could feel his and Justin’s eyes burning into my back, but I didn’t look back. Not even once. I ran back to my mother’s room. Fortunately, the doctor said the fall hadn’t caused any permanent damage. I let out a shaky breath of relief. I showed her the signed papers. She stared at them in shock for a moment, then wiped a tear from her cheek. “My poor girl,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you better.” I shook my head. If it hadn’t been for her, I might have spent the rest of my life letting those online comments trick me into staying. I booked two one-way plane tickets home that very night. From this moment on, their lives had absolutely nothing to do with mine.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529618”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ever since I was a little girl, I could see the threads of connection stretching between people. When I first walked into my elementary school classroom, the thread binding me to my desk mate was a vibrant, brilliant red. By graduation day, it had faded to a lifeless, dusty gray, snapping silently into nothingness. I wasn’t sad. I knew that the three threads anchoring me to my father, mother, and my older brother, Chris, were always fiercely hot, thick, and crimson. They were my armor, the sole reason I felt safe enough to be reckless, to throw tantrums, and to demand the world. Until I was eighteen. That was the year they brought home a timid, fragile-looking girl and told me she was their biological daughter. My mother held me close, crying, while my father and Chris swore with bloodshot eyes: “Even though she’s back, our love for you will never change.” I believed them. But when I looked up, the thick red lines connecting us had already washed out into a faint, pale pink. At first, it was just pink. Until the day she came home covered in bruises, weeping as she told them I had orchestrated a campaign of bullying against her at school. Panic-stricken, I tried to explain, begging them to believe me. They listened, and just like they always did, they patted my head and smiled softly. “Don’t cry, Simona. Of course we believe you.” They said the words. But in the very next second, those three pink threads looked as though the last drop of life had been violently drained from them. Right before my eyes, they turned completely, utterly gray. That was the moment I realized my armor was gone. … Staring at those dead gray lines, a cold dread pooled in my stomach. I asked in a quiet voice, “Do you… do you really believe me?” No one answered. They were too busy cleaning Delilah’s cuts and scrapes. Their hands were tender, their faces etched with a deep, consuming worry. My chest tightened. I clenched my fists and asked again, louder this time. This time, Chris looked up. His voice carried a heavy, exhausted sigh. “We already said we believe you, Simona. Can you please stop making a scene?” In his eyes, there was a flash of irritation—a cold, dismissive look I had never seen before. I stood frozen, feeling incredibly small and lost. As I watched, the gray of our threads grew even paler, almost translucent. Terrified of pushing them further, I shut my mouth. I picked up a bottle of antiseptic from the table, desperate to be useful, and stepped forward to help. But my foot caught on something—or someone—and I tripped. The bottle slipped from my fingers, splashing the dark brown liquid directly across Delilah’s face. She screamed, shrinking back into my mother’s arms with her eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry, Simona! I shouldn’t have said anything! Please, please don’t hurt me anymore!” “Mom, Dad… maybe you should just send me back. I know it was awful there, but at least I wouldn’t be ruining your lives.” My mother’s eyes welled with tears instantly. She, who was usually a compulsive clean-freak, didn’t even care that the dark liquid was staining her expensive silk sleeves as she wiped Delilah’s face. “Don’t say such things, sweetheart. We would never send you back to those monsters!” “Simona didn’t mean to, I promise you. She isn’t a cruel girl.” But as she spoke those protective words, the gray thread connecting her to me thinned by a measurable inch. She was defending my character to Delilah, but in her heart, she had already branded me a monster. My father placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, nudging me forward. “What are you waiting for? Apologize to your sister. Your mother is standing up for you; the least you can do is show some remorse.” I grabbed his sleeve, desperate for a lifeline. “Dad, please believe me. Someone tripped me. I didn’t do it on purpose.” “No one is saying you did it on purpose, but you still spilled it on her. You need to apologize.” He looked down at me. His voice was patient, but his eyes were entirely devoid of warmth. Years of being the beloved, proud daughter of the Harrison family made me stubborn. I pointed at Delilah, my voice trembling. “Maybe she tripped me! She did it on purpose to frame me! Dad, just trust me this once! You always taught me never to lie. You said liars have to face the consequences!” Dad pursed his lips, staring at me. I looked up at him with all the sincerity I could muster, praying he would take my side. But in the next second, the thread between us thinned to a whisper. And then came his cold, quiet verdict: “Then you will take your punishment.” “Those who lie must kneel in the foyer. I believe in fairness, Simona. I won’t play favorites.” Kneeling on the hard wooden floor of the grand entryway was the harshest punishment in our household. In my memory, it had only happened once before. When we were kids, Chris had failed to watch over me, and I had scraped my knee on the driveway. For that tiny scratch, our parents had made him kneel outside for a whole day. Back then, they punished him out of love for me. Now, they were punishing me out of love for Delilah. I felt as though I had been plunged into an ice bath. With a pale face, I walked toward the foyer. Every step I took, I prayed someone would call my name. But the house remained silent. I stepped out and sank onto my knees against the cold wood. Even then, the gray threads connecting me to them didn’t flicker. The outcome had been decided long ago. No matter what I did, they would always choose Delilah. I don’t know how many hours passed. I was dizzy with hunger. Years ago, when Chris was punished, I had slipped him snacks and water because my heart ached for him. Now, the grand house behind me was brightly lit. The smell of dinner, the sound of their laughter, and the warmth of their voices drifted through the door, weaving into a whip that lashed at my soul. It was a cruel reminder: there was no one left in this world to ache for me. My head hung low, my thoughts drifting into a hazy numbness. Suddenly, the soft scuff of footsteps broke the quiet. My heart skipped a beat. I looked up, desperate for a shred of hope. But when the figure came into focus, my chest went cold. It was Delilah. She was holding a piece of bread, her face a mask of deep concern. “Simona, are you hungry? I snuck this out for you.” I stared at her, unable to discern the truth in her eyes. But the manners I had been raised with dictated that I shouldn’t refuse an act of kindness. I reached out to take the bread, trying to make peace. “Thank you. But going forward… can we just stay out of each other’s way? I don’t want this house to be a war zone.” Delilah smiled. It wasn’t a peaceful smile. There was no thread connecting us, nothing to bind us. Before I could process the sudden dread in my stomach, she shook her head. Her voice was light, cheerful, and utterly chilling. “I don’t think so.” She threw the bread onto the floor and threw herself backward with a sharp, piercing shriek. I watched her in stunned silence, realizing how laughably naive I had been. Delilah didn’t want peace. She wanted to be the executioner who severed my family’s red lines once and for all. Hearing the noise, the living room door burst open. Chris was the first one out, rushing to her side. “Delilah! What happened? Are you okay?” Her eyes and nose were red, tears streaming down her face in a perfect display of victimhood. “Chris… I knew she hadn’t eaten all day. I just wanted to bring her something. But she… she’s still so angry at me. She threw it away and pushed me…” Chris glared up at me, a hot anger flaring in his eyes. “Where did you learn to be so cruel, Simona? She went out of her way to care for you, and this is how you repay her?” I looked past him to my parents. The profound disappointment in their eyes felt like a physical blade. I wanted to ask what kindness she had actually shown me. I wanted to ask why they were so quick to believe her when I had done absolutely nothing. But my vision began to swim. Before I could speak a single word, the darkness claimed me, and I collapsed. In the haze of slipping away, I heard their muffled voices. “She thinks she can get out of this by faking a faint. She’s eighteen years old—she needs to start taking accountability.” “Just leave her there. Let’s see how long she can keep up the act.” Then came the heavy thud of the door closing, followed by silence. When I woke up, the morning sun was burning directly into my eyes, forcing tears down my cheeks. My muscles were stiff as stone. I turned my head and realized I was still lying on the cold floor of the entryway. The voices hadn’t been a dream. They had truly left me out here all night. I tried to push myself up, but my limbs failed me, and I collapsed back onto the floor. The scabbed wound on my knee tore open, hot blood staining the wood. I dragged myself further into the house, crying out from the sheer pain and humiliation. “Mom, Dad… it hurts…” In the past, the slightest scratch on my finger would have sent the entire household into a panic. But now, when I looked up, I only saw the cold, indifferent face of our housekeeper. “Where are my parents?” I whispered. “It’s Saturday,” she replied flatly. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrison took Miss Delilah out for Family Day.” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. Had they forgotten that Saturday Family Day had been my idea? Back when my parents were buried in work and Chris was always away at school, I had thrown a fit, demanding we set aside Saturdays to stay connected. They had indulged me. Mom had pinched my nose, laughing. “You just want an excuse to go out, you little devil. We don’t need a designated day to love you—we’ll love you forever.” I had believed her then, because our threads were thick, vibrant, and unbroken. Now, there was nothing left to support those empty words. I sniffled and reached a hand out to the housekeeper. “Can you help me up, please? I’m bleeding.” She stepped back, her voice chillingly professional. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrison left strict instructions. We are not to assist you. They said if we keep catering to your tantrums, you’ll never learn respect.” I stared at the trail of blood on the polished foyer floor. “Even if I’m bleeding?” “Under any circumstances.” It felt as though a piece of my heart had been carved out. But I bit my lip, dragged myself onto the sofa, and closed my eyes, hoping that if I just rested for a bit, my legs would work again. I drifted back into a heavy, feverish sleep. I was startled awake by a sharp, burning pain. When I opened my eyes, my mother’s face swam into focus. She was applying antiseptic to my knees. Tears spilled over before I could stop them. “Mom… you didn’t leave me, did you?” Her face remained flat, expressionless. She finished bandaging the wound and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Let this be the last time you pull a stunt like this, Simona. If you do it again, you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself.” I looked up. The thread connecting us was now so thin it was practically invisible. Fear gripped me, drying my tears instantly. “Mom, I wasn’t acting! I actually passed out—” “Save the excuses,” she said, standing up and turning away. A few yards away in the living room, Delilah was wearing a beautiful, trendy designer dress, shyly asking my father and Chris, “Does it look okay?” Their expressions were soft, brimming with tenderness. “My girl looks beautiful in anything,” Dad said. Chris echoed, “Everything looks good on you, sis.” Mom pulled a classic blue Tiffany box from her shopping bag and clasped a delicate diamond necklace around Delilah’s neck. “They’re right. But this makes it perfect.” My throat tightened. Not long ago, Delilah had snuck into my closet and tried on one of my dresses. When I caught her, before I could even speak, she had panicked, stripping it off and begging, “Please don’t be mad, Simona. I’ve never had anything this pretty. I just wanted to see…” My parents had stepped in immediately, telling her in front of me, “You look much better in it than Simona anyway. Keep it. Simona has plenty of clothes.” I used to think those loving praises belonged to me. Now I understood they belonged to the title of “daughter” and “sister.” And I didn’t hold those titles anymore. I looked down at the white gauze on my knee. A small circle of red was blooming through the cotton—a tiny, unnoticed period marking the end of my childhood. After two days of resting, I could finally walk. The very first thing I did was arrange to meet Delilah’s adoptive parents—my biological parents, Thomas and Melissa Cooper. The moment we met, I saw the thick, brilliant red threads stretching between us. They were simple, hard-working, honest people—the exact opposite of the abusive monsters Delilah had described. My heart settled. I explained why I had come. When I returned to the Harrison house, I stopped acting like the spoiled heiress. It wasn’t a tantrum; I had simply stopped fighting. I knew I couldn’t win. I kept to my room, only coming down for meals. I sat quietly in the corner, ate in silence, and went straight back upstairs. My sudden silence caught them off guard, and their attitude softened slightly. They would put food on my plate, though always after serving Delilah. They tried to make small talk, but our conversations never lasted more than a few sentences. With Delilah, they had an endless stream of laughter and stories. I listened to it all like background noise, cleared my plate, said, “Thank you for dinner, I’m going to my room,” and left. I stopped waiting for them to ask me to stay. I stopped hoping for their warmth. Over time, the heavy ache in my chest began to fade, like a wound forming a solid, painless scar. One afternoon, Mom called me over to show me the design layouts for my upcoming Columbia University Acceptance Gala. Delilah leaned over, her eyes wide with envy. “It’s so beautiful. I’ve never had a party like this.” Chris sipped his coffee and casually suggested, “Why don’t we combine Delilah’s welcome-home party with Simona’s acceptance gala?” A spike of resentment hit me. “Why? This is supposed to be my celebration.” I had worked myself to the bone, studying late into the night and winning national academic competitions just to earn early admission to Columbia. When the acceptance letter came, my parents had wept with pride, eager to show the world what their daughter had accomplished. Chris frowned. “You’re sisters, Simona. Share the spotlight.” Delilah toyed with the hem of her shirt, looking downcast. “Maybe because my grades aren’t good… Simona doesn’t think I deserve to be there.” Mom immediately wrapped an arm around her, kissing her temple. “Of course you deserve it, sweetie. You’re my daughter. We’ll host it together. Come look at the designs with us.” The protests died in my throat. What was the point of arguing? I was no longer their pride. The daughter they wanted to parade before high society was Delilah, the long-lost child. Not me. “Let her have the designs,” I said quietly, standing up. “I’m going to lie down.” “Oh, don’t go, Simona,” Delilah said, with a delicate pout. “If you’re going to be angry, I don’t want to steal your thunder.” “Don’t worry about her,” Chris muttered. “Once she sees the custom gown we ordered for her, she’ll get over it.” I walked to my bedroom, shut the door, and slid down against the wood until I was sitting on the floor. I didn’t cry. I just felt empty, as if the last lingering hope had been quietly packed up and moved out. This gala wasn’t a celebration. It was going to be my farewell. The day of the gala arrived. Delilah and I were in the hotel dressing room. Halfway through getting ready, Delilah’s custom gown tore along the seam. Without hesitation, Mom turned to me. “Give your dress to your sister, Simona. This is her first major event. She needs to look perfect.” It was the gown I had waited months for. I had spent hours collaborating with the designer, refining every bead and lace detail. But I didn’t argue. I unzipped the dress, folded it neatly, and handed it over. Mom blinked, clearly startled by my compliance. As she took the silk fabric, a rare wave of warmth washed over her face. “You’re finally growing up, Simona. You’re behaving like a real adult.” At those words, the gray threads connecting us suddenly flushed with a faint pink hue, thickening slightly. I stood there, a profound sadness settling deep in my bones. What a cruel joke of fate. The connection I had fought so hard to save was finally showing a spark of life—now that I had decided to let it die. But I didn’t want it anymore. Delilah went out first, wearing my dress, stepping into the ballroom as the undisputed star of the evening. I took my time. I waited nearly an hour before I finally walked down the grand corridor toward the double doors. The moment I stepped inside, my mother marched over and slapped me across the face. The crack echoed in the foyer. “Simona Harrison! I thought you had finally matured, but you were just plotting to ruin your sister’s night!” “Tell me! Did you deliberately tear both of those dresses just to humiliate her?” My cheek burned, my head spinning as I looked past her. Delilah was huddled in Chris’s embrace, wrapped in his suit jacket, weeping softly. The surrounding guests watched us, murmuring behind their hands. “I heard Simona was incredibly spoiled, but this is shocking.” “She’s only eighteen and already this manipulative? The Harrisons raised a viper.” Dad’s face was dark. He stepped forward, his voice a low, threatening hiss. “If you want to remain a Harrison, you will apologize to Delilah right now. Do it sincerely, and we can still salvage your reputation in this circle.” I let out a dry, cold laugh. “Don’t worry. Starting tonight, I’m no longer a Harrison.” Dad stared at me, his eyes freezing over. “If you walk away from this family, where do you think you’re going to go?” Right then, the heavy double doors opened, and two people walked in. They were wearing what were clearly their absolute best clothes, though their modest department-store attire looked terribly out of place among the designer silk and diamonds. But to me, they looked as if they were bathed in light. Delilah gasped, shrinking further into Chris’s chest. “Did Simona bring them here? It’s my fault! I’m sorry! I won’t take anything else from you, just please don’t let them take me back!” Chris glared at me, his face contorted with rage. “Simona! What did Delilah ever do to make you hate her this much? Do you want to destroy her?” I looked at him, my cheek still stinging from the slap, feeling nothing but a profound, hollow pity. Dad swept a dismissive glance over the couple. “You are not welcome here. Leave immediately before you frighten my daughter.” Thomas Cooper stood stiffly, rubbing his calloused hands against his trousers, but he raised his voice so it carried across the quiet room. “We came to take our daughter home.” Mom’s face twisted in disgust. “Are you deaf? Your daughter isn’t here! Security, get them out!” “Wait!” I called out, my voice cutting through the luxury of the room. “They are here for me.” The room fell into a suffocating, dead silence. For three long seconds, nobody breathed. And then, those fading, pale pink threads connecting me to the Harrisons suddenly flared with a brilliant, violent crimson.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529617”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For seven years, the man I loved had one recurring request: Be the bigger person. Step aside. On my twentieth birthday, he took the limited-edition necklace he’d just gifted me, unclasped it from my neck, and fastened it around Mia’s because she admired it. “Her father saved my life, Jo. You’re my girlfriend. Just let her have this one thing.” When I finally landed a coveted offer at a top-tier tech firm after pulling countless all-nighters, he pulled strings behind the scenes to hand the position over to Mia. “She isn’t as fiercely independent as you are. She needs this break more than you do. Be understanding, Jo. Step aside for her.” Even when I was hospitalized after a car wreck, shivering from the sheer agony of my fractured ribs, he abandoned me in the ER because Mia had a nightmare. “Ever since her dad died saving me, she’s been terrified of the dark. Just give me tonight. Be the bigger person.” I was the bigger person for seven years. I stepped aside, time and time again, right up until the day of our wedding. By the time I rushed to the venue, delayed by a supposed “scheduling error” with my bridal car, Mia was already walking down the aisle, her arm looped through Declan’s, going through the motions of my ceremony. Later, when he finally stepped into the bridal suite, he looked at me with an air of absolute entitlement. “I only just found out she’s been harboring a crush on me all these years. I was just giving her a memory. Fulfilling a dream.” “Anyway, you’re the one signing the marriage license with me tomorrow. Don’t be so petty about this. Let her have this one last thing.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry in frustration the way I used to. Instead, I smiled and nodded. Declan let out a long, heavy exhale of relief. He reached out, likely to stroke my hair and praise my maturity. But I sidestepped his touch. I slid the diamond engagement ring off my left hand and placed it softly on the vanity glass. “This time,” I said, my voice eerily calm, “I’m letting her have you, too.” … Declan stared at the ring resting on the glass, his eyes darkening. “Jo, you’ve always been the rational one. Why are you suddenly throwing a tantrum like a child?” He loosened his bowtie, exasperated. “The ceremony is just a show. I promise, when we fly out for the honeymoon next week, it’ll just be us. Okay? You’ve been burning the candle at both ends planning this for six months. I’ll make it up to you.” It was a script I knew by heart. But no matter what he promised, our relationship was a crowded room. There was always a third person wedged between us. When it was time to pick out my wedding dress, he said trying on gowns was exhausting work and had Mia model them for him instead. When we were house hunting, he told Mia to pick the neighborhood she liked best, claiming it would be “more convenient for when she sleeps over.” Even the honeymoon destination—Phuket—was chosen because Mia had always wanted to go. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and looked him dead in the eye. “Do I look like I believe you anymore?” Declan’s jaw tightened. Patience was never his strong suit. “I apologized, Jo. What more do you want from me?” I was too drained to fight. I turned toward the door, only to find Mia pushing it open. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting?” she asked, her voice breathless and sweet. She extended her right hand, sliding a diamond ring off her finger. She held it out to me, offering a tragic, wistful sigh. “Joanna, the truth is… the ring I’m wearing is the real one. But today, I’m giving it back to you. The ring, and Declan.” The air in my lungs vanished. I snapped my head toward Declan, then looked down at the vanity. Two rings. Identical in every way. Declan’s eyes darted away. He stepped forward, trying to wrap an arm around my waist, his voice dripping with guilt. “There were a lot of heavy hitters in the audience today, Jo. Board members, investors. I had to use the real diamond to help Mia save face. I… I forgot to mention it.” Forgot to mention it. That ring was a custom design. He had drafted the blueprints himself. It was supposed to symbolize a lifetime of exclusive love. I still remembered the night he proposed three years ago. The way the city lights reflected in his eyes as he dropped to one knee on the balcony. “I, Declan Wright, swear my absolute loyalty to Joanna Ellis. I want nothing more than to hold your hand for the rest of my life,” he had vowed, his voice thick with emotion. “If I ever break this promise, may I lose everything. May I be ruined.” I had believed him. That was why I compromised. Why I chipped away at my own boundaries, over and over, just hoping we would make it to the altar. I had worn that ring for three years. I never took it off to shower, never took it off to sleep. It had worn a permanent indent into my skin. How had he swapped it? And he forgot? It was such a pathetic, lazy lie. And now, the ring that held my entire future was sitting in the palm of the girl he considered his fragile little ward. A physical weight pressed down on my chest, crushing my ribs, suffocating me. Seeing my frozen silence, Declan snatched the ring from Mia and reached for my left hand, moving to force it back onto my finger. I violently yanked my arm away. My throat burned as I choked out a single word. “Dirty.” The color drained from both their faces. Mia’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She shrank back, her voice trembling in a perfect pitch of vulnerability. “I’m so sorry, Joanna. I didn’t know you thought I was repulsive. Ever since my dad died, everyone looks at me like I’m a stray… like I’m trash. You were the only one who always shared your things with me. I thought… I thought you didn’t hate me.” Her words plucked the exact chord of Declan’s savior complex. He shoved me back, turning his entire body to shield Mia. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, before turning a furious glare on me. “You are incredibly cold-blooded, Joanna!” he snapped. “Mia has been through enough. Are you trying to push her over the edge with this attitude? When did you become so bitter and toxic?” His shove caught me off guard. I stumbled backward in my heels, my lower back slamming violently into the sharp corner of the vanity table. A dull, agonizing pain shot through my pelvis, radiating down my legs and up my spine. My vision blurred. Cold sweat erupted across my forehead. Declan caught sight of my twisted expression. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his eyes. His tone immediately softened. “Jo, I… I just lost my temper. Are you okay? Let me take you home so you can lie down.” The second his hand brushed my arm, it happened. A sudden, terrifying plunge of warmth slipped from inside me. I froze. The world went dead silent. I didn’t dare breathe, let alone move. A horrifying realization began to claw its way into my brain. “Jo? What is it?” Declan stepped closer, scanning my pale face. Before I could speak, the dressing room door swung open again. Mia and Declan were standing perfectly positioned to block me from view. It was Mia’s mother. She swept into the room, her face flushed with champagne and triumph, teasing them playfully. “You two have been glued together all day! Still whispering sweet nothings? Come on, the family toast is starting. We can’t miss the golden hour!” Mia looked up at Declan, her doe eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Declan frowned, his jaw working as he fought a silent battle. Slowly, excruciatingly, he pulled his hand away from me. He leaned in, dropping his voice to a hushed whisper meant only for my ears. “It’s my fault Mia doesn’t have a complete family to walk her down the aisle. I owe her a perfect wedding day. Go home and rest. Be careful driving.” The dual agony of my spine and my cramping abdomen was blinding. It felt like an invisible hand was wrapping around my throat, choking off my voice. I couldn’t make a sound. Taking my silence for my usual, worn-down compliance, Declan dropped my car keys and the diamond ring onto the glass table. He turned to Mrs. Francis, his voice suddenly bright and projecting. “We’re coming, Mom…” Mom. He said it so naturally. The moment the door clicked shut, the last string holding me upright snapped. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the carpet. The pristine white tulle of my wedding dress was already soaking up a dark, relentless red. Panic seized me. I clamped my hands over my stomach, trembling violently. Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, ruining the bridal makeup I had sat in a chair at 5:00 AM to have applied. I was in too much pain to stand. Driving was out of the question. My hands shook so badly I could barely unzip my clutch. I pulled out my phone and dialed Declan’s number. It rang. And rang. For three solid minutes, I listened to the dial tone. He didn’t pick up. Using the very last ounce of strength I had, I dialed 911. By the time the paramedics strapped me onto a stretcher and wheeled me out of the suite, the grand doors to the ballroom were propped open. I didn’t want to look, but my eyes betrayed me. Mia was clinging to Declan’s arm. They were standing at the head table, raising crystal flutes to a room full of cheering guests. As the crowd chanted, they crossed their arms in a traditional lovers’ toast and drank. Declan had a severe stomach ulcer. He never drank alcohol. Not even when closing million-dollar deals; he always toasted with sparkling water. But today, for Mia, he drank the champagne. My consciousness faded into a blur of sterile lights as they rushed me into the ER. Cold metal instruments invaded my body, scraping away the pieces of a future I didn’t even know I had. I hadn’t been asleep long in the recovery room when the sound of muffled sobbing woke me. It was Declan. He was sitting by the bed, his face buried in his hands, weeping openly. When he saw my eyes flutter open, he lunged forward, grabbing my hand in a vice grip. His voice was entirely broken. “Jo… oh God, Jo, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were pregnant. I’m a monster! If I hadn’t pushed you, the baby wouldn’t have…” He choked on a sob. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me the second you felt pain?” My face felt like stone. I slowly, deliberately slid my hand out of his grasp and turned my head to stare at the blank beige wall. A single, quiet tear traced down my temple into my hairline. The child I had always dreamed of was gone. Killed by the hands of its own father. It was a tragedy so profound it almost felt like a dark joke. “I did call you,” I whispered, my voice raspy and hollow. “You didn’t answer.” Declan froze. He frantically dug his phone out of his tuxedo pocket, swiping through his screen until he saw the missed call log. The color drained from his face all over again. He opened his mouth, desperate to fill the silence, but the door flew open. Mia burst into the hospital room, her hair wildly out of place. “Declan! Declan, something’s wrong! My mom passed out in the lobby!” She was hysterical. “I already lost my dad! I can’t lose my mom too!” Declan’s eyes snapped to her. The guilt on his face warring instantly with his ingrained sense of duty to her. He looked back at me, his expression agonizingly torn. “Jo, the… the baby is already gone. I need to go check on Mrs. Francis with Mia. I’ll be right back. Just wait for me.” I didn’t say a word. I just watched his back as he sprinted out of the room, Mia’s hand tightly clasped in his. The door swung shut. The room was quiet again. I closed my eyes, letting the memory of my conversation with the surgeon wash over me. “Miss Ellis, the trauma of this miscarriage was severe. There was significant hemorrhaging… I’m incredibly sorry to tell you this, but it is highly unlikely you will ever be able to carry a child to term again.” In the absolute lowest, most excruciating moment of my life, when my body was hollowed out and my spirit was shattered, Declan had chosen to walk away from me. Again. My hand drifted down to rest on my flat, empty stomach. My mind drifted back to the night he proposed. We had been lying in bed, tangled in the sheets, whispering into the dark about what our kids would look like. He said they’d have his eyes and my resilience—the best parts of both of us. “When we have kids, Jo… if it’s a boy, let’s name him Oliver. If it’s a girl, Hazel. What do you think?” Before I could even answer, his phone had buzzed. “Mia’s going to the cemetery tomorrow morning to visit her dad’s grave,” he had said, already sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed. “She said she doesn’t have the right flowers. I need to take her to the 24-hour florist.” I had grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “But you promised tonight was just for us. Can’t she buy her own flowers in the morning?” He had sighed, that heavy, condescending sigh, and leaned down to kiss my forehead. “She’s grieving, Jo. Just give me the rest of the night. Step aside for her, just this once. When we’re married, she’ll be like a little sister to you too. You need to learn to be more accommodating.” And then he had dressed and walked out the door. I remembered lying awake that night, tossing and turning, my chest tight with a nameless anxiety. How much longer do I have to step aside? How many more times? But then I had looked at the diamond shining on my left hand and told myself the lie I always told myself: Once we’re married, things will change. He’ll put me first. Looking back now from this sterile hospital bed, the naivety of it was staggering. People don’t change. Their fatal flaws only deepen with time. It was well past midnight when Declan finally returned. He walked in carrying a thermal thermos, looking entirely sheepish. “Her mom just had too much to drink at the reception and passed out. We got her an IV to sober her up just to be safe,” he explained, pulling up a chair. “Mia felt terrible about everything, so she went home and made you some chicken soup. Drink a little.” He unscrewed the lid, poured some into the small bowl, and scooped up a spoonful. He blew on it carefully before bringing it to my lips. I stared coldly into the oily broth. “I don’t want anything that her hands have touched.” Declan’s expression hardened. “She spent hours making this, Jo. She was trying to do something nice!” He pulled the spoon back. “Fine. If you won’t drink it, I will.” He shoved the spoon into his mouth. The second the liquid hit his tongue, he gagged and spit it back into the bowl, coughing violently. “Why is it so… sour and salty?” He cleared his throat, his face flushing red as he awkwardly placed the bowl back on the nightstand. “Mia’s never really cooked before. It’s the thought that counts.” I kept my eyes locked on his face, studying the lines, the defensive posture. I was looking right through him. The silence stretched out for several agonizing minutes. Finally, he shifted in his seat and tried again, his voice tentative. “Jo, the doctor said you need strict bedrest. So about signing the papers at City Hall tomorrow…” I cut him off. “We’re not going.” Seven years of shrinking myself to fit into his life. It was over. He misread my exhaustion for grief. He reached out and tucked the scratchy hospital blanket around my shoulders, dropping his voice to a soothing murmur. “Jo, please don’t let yourself spiral. I’ve already contacted the best fertility specialists in the country. We can afford the treatments. We… we’ll have another baby.” I slowly shook my head. “No, we won’t.” I looked at him. Really looked at him. “Declan, it’s over. We’re done.” He shot up out of the chair, his brow furrowing in instant irritation. “Joanna, marriage isn’t a game you can just quit when you’re mad!” “I’m not mad. I’m entirely serious.” His hands, hanging by his sides, began to tremble. “Is this because of the fake ceremony with Mia? Or because I accidentally caused the miscarriage? Or is there something else?” “All of it,” I said. “And a thousand other things you wouldn’t even remember.” “You are seriously going to throw away seven years over these trivial mistakes?” Trivial mistakes. The moments that had shattered my heart, the betrayals that had rewritten the course of my life—to him, they were just bumps in the road. The lump in my throat was agonizing, but my voice didn’t shake. “Yes,” I said. “I am throwing it away over exactly what you call trivial mistakes.” Declan ground his teeth, his jaw visibly ticking as he forced down his rising temper. He grabbed the thermos off the table. “You just lost a pregnancy, Jo. Your hormones are crashing. You’re emotional and speaking out of spite. I’m going to give you a few days to calm down. I’ll come back with the medical team when you’re thinking clearly.” He walked out. I lay staring at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling until my phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from the interior designer for our new house. [Hi Joanna! The last piece of custom furniture just got delivered to the living room. Congratulations on the new home and the wedding! When are you free for the final walkthrough so I can hand over the keys?] I stared at the glowing screen. A physical ache hollowed out my chest. My parents had died when I was young. I grew up bouncing between reluctant relatives, living out of suitcases, always feeling like an intruder in someone else’s space. I had promised myself that one day, I would build a home that was unconditionally mine. The house the designer was texting about was supposed to be my sanctuary. Our marital home. “Jo, I’m never going to let you drift again,” Declan had told me the day we closed on it. “Now that you have me, you can finally put down roots.” When he handed me the deed, Mia had been standing right behind him. I remembered the flash of pure, unadulterated venom in her eyes when she saw that the deed was in my name only. For the past six months, while juggling my demanding corporate job and the wedding planning, I had poured my soul into that house. I picked out every slab of marble, every hardwood plank. I drove to a dozen different showrooms just to find the perfect shade of taupe for the walls. I supervised the contractors like a hawk, desperate for it to be perfect. It was the first real home I’d ever had. But now? Now I knew that even in that house, I would never be the only woman in Declan’s life. His ghost would always be living in the guest room. I didn’t want it anymore. [Hi Mark,] I typed back. [Please contact your real estate broker immediately. I want to list the house. As fast as possible.] The three gray typing dots bounced on the screen for several long minutes. Mark was clearly shocked. [Joanna, you poured your heart into this place. Are you absolutely sure?] [I’m sure.] [If we want a fast cash sale right now, we’ll have to list it under market value. You’ll take at least a $50k hit. Are you okay with that?] [I don’t care about the money. Just get it sold.] The broker was ruthless and efficient. Within three days, he found a buyer. It was a married couple in their forties, deeply in love and looking for an upgrade. When they walked in and saw the brand-new, never-lived-in, designer-furnished space, they made a cash offer on the spot. The money hit my bank account. I signed my own discharge papers and walked out of the hospital. … A week later, Declan pulled into the driveway of the new house with Mia sobbing in the passenger seat. “My mom kicked me out after we got into a huge fight over the hospital bill… I almost had to sleep on the street,” Mia cried, clutching her designer purse. “Declan, I don’t know what I’d do without you. But… will Joanna really let me stay here? It’s your marital home.” Declan paused on the front porch, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. But then he squared his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. Jo is generous. She’ll step aside and let you have the guest room.” He walked up to the smart lock and punched in my birthday. Error. He tried again. Error. He frowned, pulling out his phone to call me. Just as he dialed, the heavy oak door swung inward. A strange man and woman stood in the foyer, staring at them in bewilderment. “Who the hell are you?” the man demanded. “And why are you trying to break into our house?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529616”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Aaron came from old money—a dynasty built on ruthless efficiency. To him, everything had to be optimized, categorized, and managed. Even our marriage was governed by a proprietary operating system. For five years, my inbox received a daily delivery: a Wife Performance Review. For five years straight, I maintained a perfect “S” rating. My reward? The right to make one small request of my husband every single day. I truly believed that made me his favorite person. Until today, when I brought lunch to his office and watched his childhood friend, Daphne, boss him around. And Aaron? He was smiling. He was enjoying it. Daphne didn’t have a spreadsheet. She had no quotas, no performance indicators, no multi-level approval processes. She simply asked, and my husband eagerly bent the world to please her. Yet, on my birthday last month, when I begged him to ride the Ferris wheel with me, his face had hardened with impatience. “You already used your daily request this morning, May. An ad-hoc addition doesn’t align with the reward matrix.” The ceramic container slipped from my hands. Hot soup splattered all over my shins, but all I could do was let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I walked out, hailed a cab, and went straight home to shove five years of performance reviews into the paper shredder. Aaron. It turned out you weren’t naturally rigid. You were just rigid with me. I was an employee clocking in to hit her KPIs. But your childhood sweetheart was a permanent, off-the-books consultant. No clocking in, no performance reviews, yet she walked away with your entire heart. Today, I ripped down the current review pinned to our headboard and booked a one-way flight to Charleston. If your sacred rules only bend for her, then I am happily resigning. It’s time to be the main character of my own life. … “May, throwing a temper tantrum in the lobby and leaving a mess on the floor severely damaged my corporate image. That’s a direct violation of Clause 4 of our Spousal Conduct Agreement. Your rating for this month is downgraded to a D.” Aaron’s voice was as cold and sterile as dry ice when he pushed open the bedroom door. He stood in the frame, his bespoke Tom Ford suit immaculate, not a single thread out of place. Between his long, manicured fingers, he held a freshly printed sheet of paper—his proprietary “Spousal Performance Disciplinary Action Notice.” I stopped folding my sweaters. My eyes skimmed the document before rising to meet his cold, indifferent gaze. “Whatever you say,” I replied quietly. I turned back to my suitcase, tucking a soft cashmere pullover into the corner. Aaron’s brows knit together instantly. He wasn’t built for this kind of silence. For the last five years, the moment he produced one of these sheets, I would scramble into a panic of self-reflection, tears welling up as I desperately tried to explain myself. “What is this attitude, May?” He stepped into the room, his Oxford shoes striking the hardwood with a heavy, rhythmic thud. His gaze swept down to the piles of shredded paper littering the floor. He paused, his expression shifting into an unfiltered, mocking sneer. “Shredding your old ‘S’ ratings and packing a bag… is this your dramatic way of compensating for today’s emotional outburst?” He tossed the disciplinary slip onto my vanity. “Grow up. Stop throwing these childish tantrums. I’ve explained this to you. The Ferris wheel was an unscheduled, high-time-consuming variable. You had already redeemed your micro-wish for the day by having me taste your soup. Adding another request on the fly violates my time-management protocols.” He delivered this debrief with the exact same structured precision he used in his corporate boardrooms. Every word was a cold post-mortem on a failed sprint. I placed my final coat inside and slowly pulled the zipper shut. “I know. The rules are absolute.” I stood up, looking him dead in the eye. “Which is why I accept the downgrade. I accept all your rules.” Aaron stared at my placid face, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features. He loosened his tie, clearly unsettled by a quiet compliance that felt entirely out of his control. “If you understand the rules, then why did you cause a scene in the lobby? Daphne was just passing by. She saw you spill the soup and wanted to help you clean up. Why did you look at her like she was the enemy?” At the mention of her name, my fingers stiffened against the fabric of my coat. Daphne. The girl who lived entirely outside his system. The girl who could cost him a multi-million-dollar deal with a single pout, and he would still smile. “How did I look at her?” I asked, my voice flat. Aaron let out a dry, humorless chuckle, clearly annoyed by my playing dumb. “You looked at her with pure hostility, May. You terrified her. She’s fragile, she’s always had health issues, and she doesn’t handle stress well. As her friend’s wife, you showed a complete lack of grace and humiliated her in public. Where is your maturity, May?” Looking at his righteous indignation, a sudden, bone-deep chill washed over me. In the lobby this afternoon, Daphne had deliberately stepped into the spilled broth, whining that her new designer heels were ruined. Aaron had immediately dropped to one knee, using his bespoke silk pocket square to wipe her shoes. Meanwhile, the scalding soup was blistering my leg, and he hadn’t even spared me a glance. “If she’s that easily traumatized, you should get her a therapist instead of cross-examining me.” I stepped around him, rolling my suitcase toward the door. Aaron’s hand shot out, clamping down on the handle. The veins on the back of his hand strained against his skin. “What is this childish defiance really about? Our anniversary is next week. I had my assistant book that French restaurant you’ve been dying to go to. If you walk out that door, the reservation is canceled, and your wish-credits for the entire second half of the year are forfeited.” He looked down at me with the cold authority of an employer threatening to dock an insubordinate worker’s bonus. I stared at his hand on my suitcase, a sudden wave of dark amusement washing over me. That French restaurant—Le Bistro—was a milestone I had put on my “Annual Goal Proposal” six months ago. It had gone through three rounds of review before he finally approved it. And then, last night, I saw Daphne’s Instagram post. “My absolute favorite spot! Thank you, Aaron, for giving up your anniversary table so my friends and I could have our girls’ night!” And here I was, foolishly waiting for an explanation. “Don’t bother canceling it.” I reached down, peeling his fingers off the metal handle, one by one. “You’ve already reallocated the slot to Daphne, haven’t you?” Aaron froze, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his eyes before he quickly armored himself back up in righteous justification. “Daphne needed to entertain a high-profile client, and bookings are impossible to get. It was a strategic business reallocation. We are married. We have a lifetime to go there. Why are you being so petty over a single dinner? Your perspective is incredibly narrow, May.” He lectured me without even a hint of shame. “You’re right. I lack the scale for your micro-optimized life.” I pulled my suitcase past him, completely devoid of any urge to fight. Aaron watched me walk away, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “The second you step out of this house, your authorized cards will be deactivated. You have no independent income. Outside of my ecosystem, you won’t survive a single day. I will give you three days to clear your head. When you’re ready to act like an adult, come back and present a thorough five-thousand-word self-reflection.” I paused at the threshold, but I didn’t turn around. “Don’t worry about the three days, Aaron. I won’t be taking up any more of your valuable bandwidth.” The autumn night air cut through my coat, biting and sharp, as I rolled my suitcase down the empty suburban street. I didn’t look back. I flagged down a passing yellow cab. After giving the driver Talia’s address, I leaned back against the worn vinyl seat, watching the city skyline blur into a smear of neon. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. I pulled it out. It was a push notification from my banking app. “Your primary authorized card ending in 7392 has been suspended.” Aaron worked fast. A swift execution of protocol, completely devoid of hesitation. He truly believed that cutting off my funds would force me to crawl back, broken and desperate, just like before. But he had forgotten something vital: before I became his wife, I was a rising star in architectural design. I had only clipped my own wings because he insisted that his wife’s sole focus should be the optimal execution of our domestic life. Half an hour later, I was knocking on Talia’s apartment door. The door cracked open, and Talia peeked out, a sheet mask clinging to her face. “May? What is this, an impromptu midnight adventure?” She looked down at my suitcase, stepping aside to let me in, her voice teasing but laced with instant concern. I parked my bag in the hallway and slid into the slippers she offered. “Not an adventure. A permanent resignation.” I sank into her plush velvet sofa, taking a long sip of the warm water she poured. The tight knot in my throat finally began to loosen. Talia ripped off her sheet mask, her eyes widening. “Resignation? Are you telling me you finally dumped the corporate robot?” She threw herself onto the cushions beside me, grabbing my arms. “What happened? I know he treats your marriage like a hostile takeover, but what finally crossed the line?” I told her everything—the scene in the lobby, the soup, the pocket square, and the anniversary table handed to Daphne. I spoke quietly, as if narrating a movie I had watched but wasn’t in. Talia slammed her hand down on the coffee table. “I knew it! Daphne is a certified snake, and Aaron is too blind to see past her sweet-girl act! Is he insane? He denies you a birthday Ferris wheel ride because it’s not ‘budgeted,’ but he hands over your anniversary dinner because she wants to eat pasta with her friends? Why did you stay with him this long? You should have thrown him out years ago!” Talia’s fury was loud, but inside me, there was only a profound, silent stillness. Yes. I should have. It had simply taken me five years to wake up. “I booked a one-way ticket to Charleston for tomorrow afternoon.” I pulled up my airline app to show her the confirmation. Talia stared at the screen, her eyes suddenly glistening. “May… are you sure about this? Once you leave Chicago, everything you’ve built over the last five years—the professional circles, the social network—it’s all going to vanish.” She knew me. She knew exactly what I had sacrificed to stay in his shadow. I looked at the blue screen and let out a soft smile. “Those circles were never mine anyway. They belonged to ‘Mrs. Aaron Bradley,’ not May. I need to go back and find the girl I used to be.” Talia took a deep, shaky breath and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me tight. “Okay. Whatever you choose, I’m with you. Always. I’m driving you to O’Hare tomorrow.” The next morning, I had barely finished brushing my teeth when my phone began vibrating violently against the marble counter. “Aaron” flashed across the screen. I wanted to ignore it, but the calls came in relentless succession, one after another, refusing to stop. I finally swiped to answer. Before I could even say hello, his sharp, commanding voice cut through the line. “May, I need you at the office immediately.” No panic, no concern. Just the voice of a manager calling in an employee. I stared at my calm, unbothered reflection in the mirror. “I don’t report to you anymore, Aaron.” A beat of heavy silence followed. He wasn’t used to me speaking to him with such cool detachment. But his professional armor slipped right back on. “Stop playing games. Daphne is presenting the initial design concept for the Marina Project at our board meeting in an hour. She’s using the drafts you spent last month preparing. There are some technical details she’s struggling with. Come in and brief her.” My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. The Marina Project. I had pulled thirty consecutive all-nighters for that project, drowning in blueprints and engineering schematics to win over a massive client for his firm. He had promised me that once the deal was finalized, he’d fund my independent studio. That promise was the only thing that had kept me going. And now, with a casual wave of his hand, he was putting Daphne’s name on my life’s work. “That is my design. Why is she presenting it?” I forced my voice to remain steady, refusing to let him hear the tremor of betrayal. Aaron sighed, his tone carrying the practiced patience of a manager dealing with an insubordinate junior. “Daphne is new to the executive team. She needs a high-profile win to establish her authority. As a family member, why can’t you just let her borrow an idle concept draft? Besides, you don’t even have an active design license or studio registration right now. Letting it sit under your name is a waste of corporate resources.” “An idle draft. Let her borrow it.” I stared at my reflection, a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. The last five years of my life had been a joke, and I was the punchline. “May, look at the bigger picture. Come in and help her ace this meeting. Do that, and I’ll wipe the disciplinary points from last night off your record. Otherwise, your year-end European holiday credit is permanently revoked.” It was his final ultimatum. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to suppress the rising bile. “Fine. I’ll be there. But Aaron? This is the absolute last time I fix her mess.” I hung up and turned to find Talia leaning against the doorframe, staring at me with deep concern. “Are you insane? You’re actually going to let her step all over you?” I grabbed my bag and began stuffing the heavy folders from the desk inside. “No,” I said, zipping it shut. “I’m going to take back what’s mine.” The executive boardroom on the top floor of Bradley Group HQ was thick with a suffocating, awkward silence when I pushed the heavy glass doors open. My rendering of the Marina Project was projected on the massive screen. Daphne was standing at the podium, a laser pointer trembling in her hand, sweat beaded along her hairline. “The… the load-bearing design of the glass canopy is… it’s mostly for… aesthetic synergy…” She stammered, entirely out of her depth, delivering a textbook non-answer. The client representatives from Dennis Holdings sat at the head of the table, their expressions souring. Aaron sat near the front, his jaw tight. The moment Daphne saw me walk in, relief washed over her face like she’d just spotted a lifeboat. “May! Thank goodness you’re here!” She practically ran over in her designer pumps, throwing her arms around my elbow in a desperate show of intimacy. “I couldn’t quite memorize the stress-load formulas last night. Could you explain the load-bearing ratios for me?” She said it with the casual entitlement of a queen addressing her handmaiden. Every eye in the room locked onto me. Some were confused, some dismissive, others simply waiting for the drama to unfold. Aaron stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. He addressed me in his usual, sterile executive tone. “May, now that you’re here, step up and clarify the engineering specifics for Daphne. Let’s not waste our clients’ time.” I pulled my arm out of Daphne’s grasp, looking down at her wide, innocent eyes. “Explain them for you?” I let out a soft laugh. It wasn’t loud, but in the dead silent room, it cut like a razor. “Daphne, if I recall correctly, you haven’t looked at a single topographic survey or blueprint for this project. If I explain it, am I supposed to pretend this is your work in front of our clients?” Daphne’s face drained of color, and tears instantly welled in her eyes. “May… how could you say that? Aaron told me this was an old, discarded concept draft… he said I could use it to gain experience…” She turned her tearful gaze toward Aaron. Aaron’s expression turned thunderous. He marched over, lowering his voice to a harsh, dangerous whisper. “May, do you have any idea what you are doing? This is a critical corporate pitch. Keep your domestic tantrums at home. Stop making a fool of yourself.” “Making a fool of myself?” I stared at the man I had loved for five years, suddenly realizing I was looking at a complete stranger. “Is this a tantrum to you, Aaron?” I met his gaze, refusing to back down an inch. “This is my work. It’s my intellectual property. You handed it over to please your childhood friend without even asking. Did you think I’d just let you?” At the head of the table, the lead engineer from Dennis Holdings tapped his pen on his folder. “Mr. Bradley, what is going on here? We are here because of the sheer brilliance of this design. If there is an intellectual property dispute within your own firm, we cannot move forward.” A flicker of panic crossed Aaron’s face, but he quickly smoothed it over with a practiced, polished smile. “Mr. Dennis, I assure you there’s no conflict. Daphne was the lead on this concept. May merely assisted with some of the minor structural drafts. She’s dealing with some personal issues at home, which explains her emotional state today. Please disregard her comments.” He lied without blinking, erasing months of my labor in a single breath to protect his firm’s image. I stood there, watching him throw me under the bus to protect Daphne’s pride. I realized then that when your heart truly dies, you don’t feel pain. You just feel empty. “May, I know you’re upset because Aaron couldn’t take you to the carnival on your birthday,” Daphne whimpered, pulling gently at my sleeve, playing the victim perfectly. “If having your name on the project means that much to you, I’ll step aside. Just please don’t cause a scene in front of our clients.” In two sentences, she had spun a blatant theft of intellectual property into a wife’s petty, jealous tantrum. Whispers broke out among the staff. The looks they threw me were now laced with pity and disdain. Aaron’s patience snapped. He picked up a document from the table and slammed it in front of me. “That is enough, May. If you ruin this pitch, the charity foundation I promised to fund in your name is off the table.” Another promise. I had worked three years, maintaining peak performance scores, just to earn that foundation in honor of my late mother. He thought he held the ultimate leverage. I stared at the paper in silence. The room was so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning. A small, smug smile began to form on Aaron’s lips, confident he had won. I pulled a pen from my bag and signed the “IP Waiver of Rights” without a moment’s hesitation. “Fine,” I said, sliding the document back across the polished wood. “You can have the credit. And you can keep your foundation.” Aaron’s eyes locked onto my signature, his brow twitching. The sheer speed of my surrender left him entirely off-balance. It didn’t fit into his predictive models. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” he muttered, collecting the folder, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. I ignored him. Instead, I reached into my bag, pulled out another document, and walked straight over to Mr. Dennis. “Mr. Dennis, this is the utility patent certificate for the structural glass canopy. The sole registered inventor is May Fitch. Since Mr. Bradley maintains that Daphne designed this concept independently, I am officially withholding my authorization to license this patent for the project.” I laid the copy on the table. “Without this technology, that beautiful glass canopy is structurally impossible. It’s nothing but an expensive fantasy.” Aaron spun around, staring at the document. His face went pale, then a furious, deep red. “May!” I ignored his roar, turning to offer a polite nod to the clients. “I apologize for wasting your afternoon, gentlemen. Have a wonderful day.” I didn’t look back as I walked out, the heavy glass doors closing behind me. Stepping out of the skyscraper, I took a deep, unrestrained breath of the autumn air. The suffocating weight I had carried for five years suddenly dissolved. I didn’t look back at the glass-and-steel monument to Aaron’s ego. I caught a cab back to our house in Lincoln Park. It was Aaron’s house, really. I was standing there as its mistress for the very last time. The house was massive, but it had never felt so hollow. I went to the study, unlocked the safe, and packed my passport, birth certificate, and the vintage jewelry my mother had left me. The designer bags and diamond necklaces Aaron had bought me over the years remained untouched in the closet. They were props for his “perfect marriage” narrative, not gifts for me. I sat at his massive mahogany desk, took out the divorce papers I’d had drafted, and signed them. I didn’t ask for a single penny. Five years, and I just wanted to leave this prison with my soul intact. I slid the papers into a sleek black folder. On the cover, I stuck a label he knew all too well: “Annual Wife Performance Review (Final Output).” I knew him too well. The first thing he did when he got home was check the center of his desk for pending approvals. If I left a standard divorce petition, he’d assume it was another dramatic ploy and throw it away. But an official performance review? He would open it immediately and analyze every single clause. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the front door. Behind me, the smart lock engaged with a sterile, mechanical click. I would never step through that door again. On the way to O’Hare, Talia texted me. “At the lounge. Usual spot. See you soon.” I sent a quick “On my way” and locked the screen. The highway was packed with rush-hour traffic, but inside the cab, I was bathed in a quiet peace. No weeping, no bitter rage, no cheap thrill of revenge. Just the bone-weary relief of a long-distance traveler finally laying down her baggage. I checked my large bags and rolled my carry-on toward the security line. The intercom chimed, announcing the boarding call for my flight to Charleston. As I reached for my ID, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. A few yards away, at the first-class desk, Aaron was standing tall. Still in his perfect suit, but Daphne was clinging to his arm, pointing at something on the counter with a childish pout. “But Aaron, I have to bring the giant teddy bear to Milan! Please make them let me take it on board!” Her whiny, babyish voice drifted through the crowded terminal. Aaron’s back was mostly to me, but I watched him pull his Centurion card from his wallet and hand it to the gate agent. “Just book the adjacent seat in first class,” he said, his voice smooth and steady. “It can sit there.” A completely uncharacteristic, boundary-free indulgence. I stood in the security queue, a soft, dry laugh escaping my lips. An hour ago, he was threatening me in a boardroom, using every dirty corporate tactic to strip me of my patent. An hour after, he was paying thousands of dollars to buy a first-class seat for a stuffed animal, just because she asked. It was never that he was incapable of warmth or flexibility. He was just incapable of showing them to me. I gripped my boarding pass, turned my back on them, and walked forward. “ID and boarding pass, please.” The TSA agent’s voice pulled me back. I handed over my documents and stepped through the scanner. The machine beeped, flashing green. I grabbed my bag and walked into the terminal without looking back. Meanwhile, at the first-class desk. Aaron signed the slip and pocketed his card. He turned his head, his gaze sweeping the bustling terminal, pausing on the security line. There were only strangers. “Aaron? What are you looking at?” Daphne asked, tugging his sleeve. He frowned, blinking away a strange sensation. “Nothing. Just thought I saw someone.” He pulled out his phone. No notifications. He opened our text thread, his thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long second, before he locked the screen in annoyance. “She’ll cool off in a couple of days and come home,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s go, Daphne. Our gate is boarding.” He turned, guiding her toward a gate that led to the opposite side of the world. The intercom made the final boarding call for Charleston. I rolled my carry-on down the jet bridge. Goodbye, Aaron. Goodbye to your system.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529615”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel