The doctor told me I had three broken ribs and a ruptured spleen. I spent seven hazy days in the ICU, drifting in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke up, the room was a sterile vacuum. No flowers, no fruit baskets—not even a shadow of a person. The nurse mentioned it offhandedly while changing my IV. “Your mother came by to sign the surgical consent. She said she had a case she couldn’t walk away from.” I felt a ghost of a smirk pull at my cracked lips. I didn’t say a word. She was a powerhouse litigator, a shark in a designer suit. She’d spent my entire childhood choosing billable hours over her only daughter. I was used to it. It wasn’t until the ninth day that my father arrived from the neighboring county. His fingers were gaunt and trembling as he gripped my hand. His Adam’s apple bobbed for a long time before he managed to force the words out. “Casey, there’s something… about the case your mother took.” He took a jagged breath, his voice thin. “It’s the Prescott family.” Courtney Prescott. The girl who had looked me in the eye before kicking me down three flights of stairs. I stared up at the clear fluid dripping through the IV line. I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. 01 My father’s hand wouldn’t stop shaking. He gripped me so hard his knuckles turned white, tighter than I was holding onto consciousness. “Dad,” I whispered. “Which Courtney Prescott? Tell me there’s another one.” I was still hunting for a loophole. One last scrap of hope. “It’s her, Casey.” He kept his head down, his voice muffled, like the words were being crushed out of his chest. “The daughter of the developer, Arthur Prescott. The girl from your school. Her father approached your mother’s firm. Your mother… she personally requested the file.” The room went silent for an eternity. The heart monitor was the only thing speaking, a steady beep-beep-beep that sounded like a countdown. I stared at the fluorescent light on the ceiling, so white it burned. One thought looped through my mind, over and over: She knows. She knows who did this to me. “Dad? Does she know I’m in the hospital?” “She knows.” “Does she know Courtney did it?” “She knows.” “And she took the case anyway?” My father didn’t answer. But silence is its own kind of confession. I closed my eyes. Suddenly, those three broken ribs flared in unison. It wasn’t the physical wound. It was something deeper, a jagged break in the center of my being. My father reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a thermal container. He unscrewed the lid. Homemade chicken soup. Steam billowed out. He was a clumsy man, a man of rough edges and ink-stained fingers. The carrots were chopped into uneven chunks, the broth wasn’t strained properly, and a few stray bits of fat floated on the surface. But it was hot. “Casey, honey. Try to drink some.” I took the cup. I swallowed a mouthful. It was too salty. I didn’t tell him. I just kept drinking. “Dad, how did you get here? How long was the bus ride?” “Not long. Two hours.” He lied. I could see the mud caked on his boots and the damp hem of his jeans. It was pouring outside, and he hadn’t even brought an umbrella. “Why are you only getting here now?” His eyes turned bloodshot in an instant. “Your mother told me not to come. She said she was handling it. She told me to stay out of the way.” He choked on a sob. “I called her for seven days straight. She didn’t pick up once. It wasn’t until your homeroom teacher, Mr. Henderson, tracked me down on social media that I found out you were in the ICU.” Seven days. I was fighting for my life for seven days. My mother stayed for eight minutes to sign a paper and left. My father called for seven days, and she ghosted him. “Dad, don’t cry.” I set the soup on the nightstand. “I want to see the damage.” He hesitated, then pulled back the thin hospital blanket. My left side was a topographical map of gauze and surgical tape. A long, angry incision ran across my abdomen, stitched together and crusting into a dark crimson scab. My right arm was a mosaic of deep purple bruises—boot prints. When I hit the stairs, my head had slammed against the edge of the concrete step. The nurse told me that two centimeters to the left, and I would have been brain dead. “What’s the bill up to?” I asked. He looked away. “Don’t worry about that.” “How much, Dad?” “Nineteen thousand so far. The follow-up surgeries and rehab… they’re estimating another fifteen.” “Who’s paying?” “Your mother. She wired twenty thousand to the hospital’s billing department.” I let out a hollow laugh. Twenty thousand dollars. My mother made more than that on a single retainer. “She paid the bill, so she thinks she’s square. That’s her logic, isn’t it?” He stayed silent. But I knew the answer. In my mother’s world, money was the universal solvent. It dissolved guilt, it dissolved responsibility, it dissolved truth. But money couldn’t knit my ribs back together. Money couldn’t catch me before I hit the floor. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. A nurse pushed the door open, followed by a doctor in a white coat. “Is the family of Casey Sullivan here? We need a signature for tomorrow’s scans.” My father stood up, but before he could speak, the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of high heels rang out from the corridor. Steady. Urgent. Perfectly timed. I knew that sound. It was the soundtrack of my childhood. My mother had arrived. 02 Margot Sullivan swept into the room, a boutique paper bag from a high-end private pharmacy dangling from her wrist. She was wearing charcoal power trousers and a cream cashmere coat. Her hair was pinned back in a flawless chignon, her signature pearl earrings catching the sterile light. When she saw my father, her face hardened for a fraction of a second. “What are you doing here, David?” “My daughter is in the hospital,” he spat, his fists clenching at his sides. “I have every right to be here.” “I told you I was handling it. You’re just complicating things.” “Handling it? By acting as the Prescotts’ attack dog?” The air in the room turned brittle. My mother’s gaze shifted to me. It wasn’t the look of a worried parent. It was the look of an adjuster assessing a claim. “Casey. How are you feeling?” She walked to the bed and set the bag on the nightstand. Inside were expensive, imported supplements. “The doctor says your vitals are stabilizing. You should be out of here in a week.” “Mom,” I said, my voice flat. “Did you really take the Prescott case?” She paused for a heartbeat, then continued arranging the bottles. “I’m the lead on the account, yes.” “How could you?” She sat on the edge of the bed, her tone shifting into her ‘client conference’ voice—calm, logical, unyielding. “Casey, listen to me. Legally speaking, a scuffle between teenagers rarely meets the threshold for criminal assault. The Prescotts are looking for a mediation. They’re prepared to cover all your medical expenses, plus a five-figure settlement.” “A settlement?” I stared at her. “Mom, she kicked me down three flights of stairs. I have a ruptured spleen. I almost died.” “I am aware,” she said, a hint of professional impatience creeping in. “Which is why I’ve negotiated such a favorable deal. Any other lawyer, and the Prescotts wouldn’t even be offering half of this.” My father couldn’t take it anymore. “Margot, listen to yourself! Your daughter was nearly killed, and you’re sitting here talking about a payout?” “David, please, try to be a rational adult for once,” she snapped, her voice low but lethal. “How much do you make a month? Can you afford her physical therapy? Her psych evaluations? A private tutor while she recovers? I am securing her future, while you’re just making noise.” My father withered. He couldn’t afford it. Since the divorce, he’d run a struggling secondhand bookstore. His monthly revenue wouldn’t cover the cost of my mother’s shoes. Seeing him silenced, she turned back to me. “Casey, I am your mother, but I am also an attorney. I know how to fix this. I’ve gotten the Prescott family up to fifty thousand dollars on top of the medical costs. All you have to do is sign a release.” A release. She wanted me to forgive Courtney Prescott. “Mom… Courtney has been hurting me for months.” My voice was trembling now. “She pulled my hair in the hall. She slapped me in front of everyone last semester. I told you. I sent you messages.” My mother frowned. “When? I never received anything like that.” “March 17th. April 2nd. May 14th. I sent three texts. You never replied.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “The firm was closing a major IPO during that window. My inbox was flooded. I must have missed them.” Missed them. Three cries for help, buried under corporate memos. “Casey, let’s not get bogged down in the past,” she said, pulling a folder from her leather tote. She laid it on my lap. “This is the settlement agreement. Look it over. The Prescotts have been very generous.” I looked down at the document. Crisp white paper, perfect formatting, legal jargon. At the bottom, a bolded line caught my eye: The Plaintiff agrees to waive all current and future legal claims against the Defendant. The “Plaintiff” was me. The “Defendant” was Courtney Prescott. I stared at that line until the words blurred. Then I looked at my mother. “Did you draft this?” “I did,” she said, smoothing her hair. “It’s a standard template. I customized it myself.” She had hand-crafted the shield for the girl who broke her daughter’s body. I closed the folder and pushed it back toward her. “I’m not signing it.” My mother’s composure finally cracked. “Casey, don’t be ungrateful. You think anyone just hands out fifty thousand dollars? You take this to court, and you’ll lose. Who’s going to pay for the litigation? Your father?” She stood up, grabbing her bag. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. “I’ll give you three days to think about it. If the Prescotts withdraw the offer, you get nothing.” The door slammed behind her. My father stood by the window, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. “Casey… trust me.” His voice was a gravelly wreck. “I don’t have the money. But I won’t let you be treated like this.” “I trust you, Dad.” The moment I said those words, the tears finally came. Not because of the pain, but because I had finally accepted the truth. My mother had chosen her client. She hadn’t chosen me. 03 Courtney Prescott had transferred in at the start of the year. Her father was the king of local real estate—net worth in the hundreds of millions. No one knew why she’d moved schools, but she made an impression on day one: she parked her white Porsche right in front of the main entrance. Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Henderson, asked her to move it. She didn’t even look at him. “Take it up with my dad,” she’d said. From that day on, she was untouchable. She targeted me after a mid-term essay. The prompt was “The Person I Admire Most.” I wrote about my father—about how he’d kept the bookstore going after the divorce, how his hands were always covered in ink, and how he’d mail me hand-copied study notes even when he was broke. The teacher read it aloud as an example of “soulful writing.” After class, Courtney poured a latte over my notebook. “What is this trash?” she sneered. “Your dad is a loser who sells dusty garbage. Why would anyone admire that?” The kids around her laughed. I didn’t say a word. I just wiped the pages clean and put them in my bag. That was the beginning. In March, she had her friends throw my backpack into the boys’ bathroom. While I was on my knees retrieving it from the floor, she stood in the doorway filming me. “Look at Casey Sullivan, lurking in the boys’ room. Looking for a date, Casey?” The video went viral in the school group chat. I went to Mr. Henderson. He just sighed. “Casey, I’ll be honest with you. Courtney’s father just donated a new science wing. The principal told me personally… we need to handle her with ‘discretion.’” That night, I sent the first text to my mother. Mom, a girl at school is bullying me. She threw my bag in the boys’ room today. Read. No reply. April 2nd. Courtney dumped a tray of cafeteria food over my head. Gravy dripped down my hair and soaked into my sweater. The whole lunchroom watched. No one moved. I texted my mother again. Mom, she did it again. It’s getting worse. Can you please talk to the school? I waited all night. At 2:00 AM, she sent four words: Handle it yourself, Casey. May 14th. She cornered me in the gym locker room, grabbed my hair, and told me to get on my knees and apologize. Her reason? My test scores were higher than hers, and it made her look “stupid.” I refused. She kicked me twice in the ribs. I stayed huddled on the floor for thirty minutes before I could stand up. I sent the third text. Mom, Courtney Prescott is hurting me. I’m scared to go to school. That time, it wasn’t even marked as ‘Read.’ Then came that Friday. After school, the hallways were mostly empty. Courtney and two of her shadows blocked my way on the third-floor landing. “I heard you went back to Henderson, Casey. You just don’t learn, do you?” I had gone back. Mr. Henderson had been trying to arrange a transfer for me to a different elective to get me away from her. Somehow, the news had leaked. Courtney grabbed my collar and shoved me toward the edge of the stairs. “You think you can just run away? You didn’t ask for my permission.” She was smiling, like she was telling a joke. Then she pulled her foot back and slammed it into my chest. My back hit the railing. My center of gravity vanished. Three floors. As I fell, I heard the sound of my own bones snapping. Then, the world went black. I woke up in the ICU. Seven days of silence. Three ignored pleas for help. One mother. Eight minutes. One settlement. Fifty thousand dollars. I lay in the hospital bed, took screenshots of those three ignored messages, and sent them to my father. He stared at his phone for a long time. “Casey,” he said softly. “Your classmate. Hannah? The one who sits next to you?” “Yeah?” “She found me today. She says she has a video.” 04 Hannah was quiet. She kept her head down, got B-minors, and tried to be invisible. When Courtney bullied me, Hannah never stood up for me. I didn’t blame her. Everyone was afraid. But I didn’t know she had been recording. My father handed me his phone. On the screen was a video, three minutes and twenty seconds long. The camera was shaky, filmed from behind a pillar on the third floor. It captured the hallway and the stairs perfectly. You could see Courtney clutching my shirt, her mouth moving, though the words were muffled. Then she let go, stepped back, and raised her right foot. The kick. My body hitting the rail and flipping over. The video cut off right there. The last frame was Hannah’s finger obscuring the lens as she likely dropped the phone in horror. “She was too scared to come forward,” my father said. “She was terrified of what the Prescotts would do to her family. But when she heard you were in the ICU… she couldn’t live with it.” Three minutes and twenty seconds. It was all there. Courtney’s face. The intent. The smirk she wore right before she ended my life as I knew it. “Dad, did you save this?” “I saved it. It’s on my phone, a thumb drive, and uploaded to the cloud.” I looked at him. He didn’t sound like a bookstore owner. He sounded sharp. “You used to be a reporter, didn’t you?” He flinched, then gave a bitter smile. “Did your mother tell you that?” “No. I saw your old press badge in the back of the store once.” “Yeah. Eight years at the State Ledger. Social justice beat, investigative pieces. After the divorce… I lost the fire for it. I just wanted something quiet.” When he said he ‘lost the fire,’ his eyes flickered. I didn’t push him. “Dad, with this video, can we charge her?” “We can. But the video isn’t enough.” He pulled a chair close to the bed. His tone had shifted. He wasn’t comforting a daughter anymore; he was a journalist connecting dots. “Casey, tell me the truth. Did Courtney only target you?” I thought about it. “No. Last year she beat up a guy in the junior class. He transferred a week later. And there was a girl named Sarah who got slapped in the bathroom. But no one reported it. Her dad is too powerful.” My father nodded, pulling out a small, battered notebook. He had already filled three pages. “Your mother saw your texts, Casey. The first one was read. The second one she replied to. The third stayed unread. She wasn’t ignorant. She was complicit.” He wrote as he spoke, his handwriting jagged but precise. In that moment, I saw him differently. This man, who made five grand a month, who lived in a cramped apartment, who couldn’t afford an umbrella. He was sitting across from me like a general preparing for war. “Casey, listen to me.” He closed the notebook. “There’s a deli across from your school. The owner, Mr. Miller. I went to see him.” “When?” “The third day you were in here.” “But you weren’t even here yet.” “I couldn’t get through to you or your mother. I was frantic. I started calling every business near the school campus.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417786”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I earned fifteen thousand dollars a month. For eight years, like clockwork, I wired ten thousand of it to my parents on the first of every month. They always told me they were tucking it away, a safety net for my future, a “wedding fund” so I’d never have to rely on a man. I believed them. I believed them until the headlights blinded me, until the sound of crunching metal became the last thing I heard before the world went black. Now, I was lying in the trauma bay, drifting in and out of a haze of pain, waiting for the surgery that would save my life. My mother was there, but she wasn’t holding my hand. She was death-gripping the sleeve of the trembling driver who had hit me, her voice a shrill, hysterical peak that cut through the hospital’s sterile hum. “We don’t have that kind of money! We’re just simple people! You have to pay the hospital right now!” The ER doctor was frantic, shoving a clipboard toward her. “Ma’am, we need a deposit for the Gallagher suite and the immediate surgical intervention. We can settle the insurance later, but she needs to go up now.” My mother acted as if she hadn’t heard him. She turned toward my gurney, her face a mask of performative agony. “Norma! Honey, just hold on! Mommy’s going to go find the insurance company right now! Just be strong!” I tried to scream, to tell her to just use the debit card in her purse—the one linked to the account I’d filled for nearly a decade—but my throat was full of copper-tasting silk. I could only watch her back as she bolted for the exit. That “wedding fund,” my eight-year sacrifice, felt like a cruel punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. 1. The lead surgeon approached for the third time, waving the billing statement like a flag of war. “Family of Norma Henderson! The patient is conscious enough to say she can pay for it herself! Just unlock her phone so we can authorize the digital payment! If we wait any longer, there won’t be a patient left to save!” I fought with every ounce of my soul to lift my hand, but my fingers only managed to twitch, clawing uselessly at the rough hospital sheets. My mother turned back to the doctor, her wailing jumping another octave. “Doctor, look at me! I’m just an old woman! I don’t know how to do those fancy phone apps! I don’t know passwords!” Jade, my best friend, came skidding around the corner, her face pale from the panicked phone call she’d received. My mother’s eyes lit up the moment she saw her. “Jade! Oh, thank God! You’re Norma’s best friend—you must know her passcode! Tell the doctor! Quickly!” Jade took one look at me—covered in blood, hooked to a dozen monitors—and her eyes brimmed with tears. She didn’t waste a second. She stepped right into the doctor’s space. “How much? How much for the deposit?” “Fifty thousand to clear the immediate surgical hold.” “Fine!” Jade snatched a credit card from her bag, not even blinking. She followed the nurse toward the billing window at a sprint. As they began to wheel my gurney toward the operating theater, we passed the corner of the hallway. My mother reached out and snagged Jade’s arm as she ran back toward us. “Jade, honey, thank you. Truly. But… that fifty thousand… how is Norma ever going to pay you back?” Jade froze, looking at my mother as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Are you serious right now? We are trying to keep her alive!” “I’m just being realistic,” my mother sniffled, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If Norma… if she ends up disabled, she’ll lose her job. That’s a lot of money for you to just lose, Jade. You should be prepared for that.” Jade backed away, her expression shifting from shock to pure disgust. “What are you talking about? Norma has sent you ten thousand dollars every month for eight years. You should have nearly a million dollars in that account! Use that to save her!” My mother’s face turned to stone for a split second before she dissolved back into theatrical sobs. “I don’t have that kind of money! Do you have any idea how expensive it is to keep a family afloat? Her brother, Zack—his wedding, the down payment on his house in the Heights… it’s gone, Jade! All of it!” The double doors of the OR began to hiss shut. The last image I had was of my mother, clutching Jade’s arm, desperately explaining why the family’s “struggles” were more important than the blood leaking out of me. Every cent of my eight-year “safety net” had been used to lay the bricks and mortar of my brother’s life. 2. “Hey, Sis. So, the Mini Cooper is a total loss, right? What’s the insurance payout looking like? Since the other guy was at fault, you’re looking at a massive settlement, aren’t you?” The first thing I heard as I drifted out of the anesthetic fog wasn’t a “How are you?” or “I love you.” It was Zack’s voice, calculating and hungry. My brother, Zack, sat by my bed wearing limited-edition sneakers and a brand-new smartwatch. I stared at him, my throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. I couldn’t form a single word. A ruptured spleen, three ribs reinforced with titanium plates, and forty-eight hours in the ICU. I had only been moved to a regular room an hour ago. Right before Zack arrived, the surgeon had pulled my parents into the hall. My recovery would require at least another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in specialized care and physical therapy. The settlement from the driver would take at least six months to clear the legal hurdles. The woman in the bed next to mine had gone to the restroom and overheard my parents in the stairwell. When she came back, she leaned over and told me exactly what she’d heard while she helped me take a sip of water. “Two hundred and fifty thousand? That’s a bottomless pit, Bill,” my mother had hissed to my father. “If we dump our savings into this, how is Zack going to make his mortgage next month? His wife is pregnant, for heaven’s sake!” My father had remained silent for a long time before grunting in agreement. And now, here was my brother, talking to a woman who had nearly died forty-eight hours ago about an insurance check. Seeing my silence, Zack shoved a poorly peeled apple wedge toward my face. “Mom said you probably have some personal savings left, right? You should probably use that for the hospital bills for now. Let the lawyers take their time with the settlement. No rush.” I finally found my voice. It was a ghost of a sound. “The money… I sent Mom… every month. Eight years.” Zack blinked, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Sis, that was Mom and Dad’s money. You gave it to them. It’s theirs. It wasn’t a loan. You aren’t seriously thinking about asking for it back, are you?” I stared him down. “Mom said… it was my wedding fund. For my future.” “Wedding fund?” Zack laughed harder now. “Norma, you’re thirty-two. Who’s going to marry an old workaholic like you? Besides, that money put the down payment on my house and covered the custom cabinets Madison wanted. It’s tied up in equity now.” He said it with such casual entitlement, as if it were a law of nature. “It’s just how things work, Norma. Every family does this. The son needs a house, the family chips in. You’re the big earner. Helping the family is literally your job.” My mother sat at the foot of the bed, her head down, silently peeling an orange. She didn’t look up once. I felt a surge of heat in my chest that had nothing to do with my injuries. My heart rate monitor began to beep a frantic rhythm. “Give it back,” I whispered, each word a jagged stone. “Nine hundred and sixty thousand. I don’t even need it all. Give me three hundred thousand. Just enough to survive this.” Thwack. My mother slammed the orange onto the floor. A second later, her wailing filled the ward. “What did I do in a past life to deserve such a heartless daughter? I raised a monster!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face on command. “Your money? You think that’s your money? Who paid for your food growing up? Who paid for your college? Do you have any idea how much we spent on you? And now, just because your brother is finally starting a family, finally continuing the Henderson name, you come back to us like a debt collector?” Zack immediately moved to her side, playing the role of the devoted son, throwing a look of pure righteous indignation my way. “Norma, how can you talk to her like that? If you cared so much about the money, you shouldn’t have given it to them! You’re making it sound like we robbed you!” I watched them—the mother-son duo, one heartbroken, one furious. I was the one broken in the bed, missing a spleen and half my blood, and yet, I was the villain for counting my pennies. 3. Jade walked in with a bowl of soup just as the scene reached its peak. She slammed the bowl onto the nightstand with a loud clack. “Mrs. Henderson, Zack—Norma just had major surgery. The doctor was very clear about her needing rest and zero stress.” Jade stood like a shield between them and my bed. My mother’s crying hitched. She wiped her eyes and turned to Jade. “Jade, tell her! You tell her! She’s demanding three hundred thousand dollars from us while we’re already struggling! She’s trying to kill us!” Zack chimed in, “Exactly. Family is supposed to be a team, but Norma’s just being selfish.” Jade ignored them. She picked up the spoon, blew on the soup, and held it to my lips. “Eat. You have another round of tests this afternoon.” I swallowed the warm broth. It took the sting out of my throat, but nothing could touch the coldness in my chest. Seeing that Jade wasn’t going to engage, my parents exchanged a look and sulked back to their chairs. After the soup was gone, Jade turned to my mother. “The doctor wants to see you both in his office. Something about the long-term care plan and the upcoming costs.” The moment my mother heard the word “costs,” she bolted upright. She grabbed Zack’s arm and headed for the door, muttering, “Yes, of course, we’re coming, we’re coming.” The room finally went quiet. “Don’t listen to them,” Jade said, tucking the blanket around my feet. “Just focus on healing. I’ll take you to your scans.” That afternoon, Jade pushed my wheelchair through the maze of the hospital. When we returned to the room, it was empty. On the nightstand sat a crumpled piece of paper. Jade picked it up and read it aloud: “Norma, Madison’s having some sharp pains. We think the baby might be coming early, so we had to head back. We’ll figure out the money situation later. Just rest for now. Love, Dad.” My hands tightened on the armrests of the wheelchair until my knuckles turned white. Jade balled up the note and threw it into the trash can. “Absolute cowards,” she hissed. For the next two days, neither my parents nor Zack showed their faces. Calls went straight to voicemail. The hospital billing office was calling again; my next surgery required a specific set of imported hardware and specialized meds that cost a fortune. They needed another hundred thousand upfront. Jade didn’t hesitate. She reached for her purse again. I caught her wrist. “No,” I said, my voice firmer than it had been since the accident. “I’ll do it. Jade… my wallet and my IDs. They must be with my mother. Can you call her? Ask her where she put them. I have an emergency fund in my personal savings. You know the password.” Jade nodded and dialed my mother. She put it on speaker. It rang five times before she picked up. “Mrs. Henderson, it’s Jade. Norma needs her wallet and her bank cards for the next payment. Where did you put them?” There was a pause. Then, my mother’s voice came through, sounding annoyed and breathless. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I must have grabbed them in the rush. They’re back at the house. We’ll bring them by when we have a spare second! It’s a madhouse here, I have to go!” “I’ll drive over and get them!” Jade said, grabbing her keys. “Don’t bother,” I whispered to her. “They won’t open the door.” “Then what are we supposed to do? You need that surgery!” Jade was pacing the small room. “I can use the banking app on my phone,” I realized. “I keep about eighty thousand in a liquid savings account just for emergencies. You can transfer it from there to the hospital.” Jade grabbed my phone and navigated to the app. She entered the passcode I gave her, but as the screen loaded, she stopped. “Norma…” her voice was trembling. “What is it?” “The money… it’s gone.” Jade turned the screen toward me. Balance: $125.30. I scrolled down the transaction history. A wire transfer had been initiated three days ago—the day my parents and Zack left the hospital. Amount: $80,000. Recipient: The Serenity Birth & Wellness Retreat. “It’s a luxury postpartum center,” Jade said, her voice dripping with venom as she Googled the name. “The ‘Royal Suite’ package. Exactly eighty thousand dollars for a one-month stay.” They had taken my life-saving money to pay for a luxury “baby-moon” for my sister-in-law. And I was lying here, waiting to find out if I’d ever walk again. 4. Jade was shaking with rage. She didn’t say a word as she dialed her own mother. “Mom, can you come to the hospital and sit with Norma? I have something I need to take care of.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. Thorne walked in with a thermos. She didn’t ask questions; she just gently wiped the tears from my face and poured me a cup of chicken soup. “Drink this, Norma. Get your strength up. Jade’s going to handle it.” The tears finally broke. I sobbed until my chest hurt, the sound raw and ugly in the quiet room. Mrs. Thorne didn’t try to stop me. She just rubbed my back and whispered, “Let it out, honey. Let it all out.” Jade didn’t come back until dusk. Her face was a mask of cold fury, her collar slightly disheveled. She had gone to the retreat. And there they were—my mother, my father, and Zack—all huddled around Madison in a suite that looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility. Jade told me she had stormed in and demanded they transfer the money back. My mother had laughed in her face. “Who do you think you are? This is family business. Norma’s money is Henderson money, and if we want to spend it on our first grandchild’s health, that’s our right!” My father hadn’t even looked up from the baby. Zack had called security to have Jade escorted out. Jade showed me the photos she took. Madison lying on a mountain of silk pillows, Zack peeling an organic apple, my parents beaming at the infant in the designer bassinet. Through the screen, I could see their happiness. A warm, golden glow of a family finally “complete.” And that happiness was built on my bones. I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen for a long time before I dialed three digits. “911. What is your emergency?” “I’d like to report a theft,” I said, my voice cold and clear. Less than twenty minutes after I hung up, my phone screamed to life. It was my mother. “Norma! Are you insane? Did you seriously call the police on us?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417785”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At three in the morning, the world is a blur of blue shadows and bone-deep exhaustion. But when Sam’s fever hit 102.2, everything sharpened into a single, terrifying point of focus. He was a furnace in my arms, his little breaths coming in shallow, ragged hitches. I didn’t even think; I grabbed my keys and flew to the pediatric ER at the very hospital where my husband, Nathan, is the Chief of Pediatrics. The night shift was skeletal. Instead of the seasoned nurses I expected, we were assigned an intern—a girl who looked like she’d graduated last week. Her name tag read Madison. She didn’t look at me, only at the thin, trembling arm of my three-year-old. She grabbed his arm with a clinical coldness that made my skin crawl. “Hold him still,” she barked. Then came the needle. She jabbed. Missed. Jabbed again, digging the tip under his skin as Sam let out a scream so thin and sharp it felt like it was slicing through my lungs. By the third time she “searched” for a vein, Sam was turning purple, his tiny arm already blooming with a sickening, bruised welt. “Stop,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Please, stop. Can we get someone with more experience? A senior nurse?” Madison slammed the blood collection kit onto the metal tray with a jarring clang. Her eyes flashed with a nasty, jagged sort of arrogance. “Maybe if you could actually control your kid, I could do my job. He’s just a kid with a fever. This isn’t a spa. You ‘boy moms’ are all the same—so high-maintenance it’s pathetic.” She spun on her heel and stormed out, leaving the door swinging. A nurse from the hematology wing, who had been passing by, rushed in to help. She sighed as she prepped a fresh swab. “Let me try, honey. Don’t mind her. That’s Madison. She’s the Chief’s ‘star student’—or so she tells everyone. She’s got a spine of steel and a direct line to the top, so she thinks she’s untouchable. Half the complaints in this ward are about her.” My brain went numb. The Chief? That was Nathan. My Nathan. 1 The hematology nurse was a pro. One smooth motion, and Sam’s blood was in the vial. Before she headed to the lab, she leaned in close. “Look, if you want to report her, I can tell you the process. She’s crossed the line too many times tonight.” Right then, Madison strutted back in. She must have caught the tail end of the conversation because her face darkened instantly. “The Chief just called to chew me out about ‘efficiency,’” Madison snapped, glaring at me. “That was you, wasn’t it? Complaining because of a few extra needle pokes? God, you really are the textbook definition of a ‘Karen.’” The other nurse took one look at Madison’s face and slipped out the door. Sam was still whimpering, his body vibrating against my chest. I rocked him gently, trying to swallow the hot ball of rage in my throat. “I haven’t called anyone yet,” I said, my voice dangerously low. Madison rolled her eyes and slumped into her chair, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Low-education, high-anxiety parents,” she muttered loud enough for me to hear. “The literal plague of this profession.” When the blood work results popped up on her screen, she barely glanced at them. “It’s just a standard viral cold,” she said, dismissively. “Take him home. Tylenol, fluids, the usual.” Something felt wrong. My intuition—the one Nathan had helped me hone over five years of marriage—was screaming. Sam’s breathing was too fast, his cough sounded like he was drowning in gravel, and he was burning up far beyond a simple cold. “This isn’t a cold,” I said. “He’s wheezing. His fever is spiking. I think it’s pneumonia. Maybe even croup.” Madison let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you go to Med School while I was looking at the chart? Or did you get your degree from a Facebook group for ‘natural mamas’? This kid is fine. You’re the one who’s a disaster.” She printed out a discharge slip and shoved it at me. “Pay at the desk, take the meds, don’t come back for three days.” I looked at the script. It was a mess—a cocktail of heavy-duty antibiotics that wouldn’t touch a virus, and a cough syrup that was explicitly contra-indicated for children Sam’s age. It even listed an alcohol-based tincture. I was done playing nice. “My husband is Nathan Miller. The Chief of Pediatrics here. Get him down here right now. Tell him his son is in the ER with a 103 fever.” Madison paused, looked me up and down—my messy bun, my stained sweatshirt, my tear-streaked face—and burst into a cruel, melodic laugh. “Do you know how many ‘exes’ and groupies try to pull the ‘Chief Nathan’ card? Bringing a kid as a prop is a new low, though. You should be embarrassed. You’re way too old to be playing the obsessed fan girl.” Sam began to wail again. I stroked his hair, my heart breaking. “Go to his office,” I said, my voice steady. “Ask him. Just say the name Claire.” She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Fine. Let’s put this fantasy to bed.” She was gone for maybe three minutes. When she returned, she sat back down and crossed her legs, looking smug. “I talked to the Chief. He said he doesn’t have a son, and he’d appreciate it if you stopped harassing his staff.” The room seemed to tilt. Nathan and I had been married for five years. Sam was three. Nathan was the kind of father who did midnight diaper changes and knew every lyric to Moana. He never missed a call unless he was in a sterile field. There was only one explanation: she hadn’t gone to see him at all. I pulled out my phone to call him myself, but the battery had finally died—the black screen reflecting my own panicked eyes. Suddenly, Sam’s body went rigid. His cough turned into a terrifying, wet gasp, and his face shifted from pale to a haunting shade of blue-gray. His eyes rolled back. His limbs started to jerk rhythmically. He was having a seizure. 2 I didn’t wait. I turned for the door, clutching Sam to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. But Madison was faster. She leaped up and blocked the exit, her eyes wide with a frantic, defensive sort of fear. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t leave until you sign the discharge papers! Are you trying to set me up for a malpractice suit?” “He’s having a febrile seizure!” I screamed, the words tearing out of my throat. “I’m taking him to the trauma bay! Move!” She didn’t move. She looked at Sam, then back at me, her brain clearly calculating the damage to her career if this went public. She reached behind her and turned the deadbolt on the exam room door. “You’re not going anywhere! You’re just overreacting to make me look bad. It’s just a fever spasm. If you make a scene, Nathan will blame me! Just sit down!” Sam was convulsing in my arms, white foam beginning to bubble at the corners of his mouth. “I won’t report you,” I lied, my teeth bared. “I’ll tell him it just happened. I won’t let him fire you. Just let me get him help!” Madison shook her head, her face a mask of deluded self-preservation. “You really think you’re Mrs. Nathan Miller, don’t you? You’re delusional. Stay. Put. Until he stops.” I realized then that I couldn’t reason with her. The room was soundproofed, the hallways were empty this late, and Sam was slipping away. I reached for my phone again, forgetting it was dead. Madison saw the movement. She lunged, snatched the phone from my hand, and threw it against the linoleum floor with all her might. It shattered into a dozen pieces. “You’re not calling anyone!” she hissed. “If I lose this residency, I’ll lose everything!” The rage that surged through me was cold and sharp. “If my son dies in this room, you won’t just lose your residency. You’ll lose your freedom.” She ignored me, turning back to her computer. “I’ll just… I’ll order more tests. That looks professional, right? I’ll say I was being thorough.” I looked around the room. Nathan had told me once that every exam room had an emergency panic button under the desk—a remnant of a high-security upgrade after a domestic dispute years ago. I saw it. A small, red plastic square mounted to the side of the mahogany desk. I dove for it. Madison tried to grab my hair, but I was faster. I slammed my palm against the button. Seconds later, heavy footsteps thundered in the hall. “Security! Open up!” Madison panicked. She yelled toward the door, “Everything’s fine! Just a misunderstanding! We don’t need help!” But the guards knew the protocol for a panic button. When they found the door locked, they didn’t wait. The glass panel of the door shattered inward with a deafening roar. Two guards burst in. “What’s the situation?” I didn’t give Madison a chance to speak. I tucked Sam’s head against my shoulder and bolted through the broken door. A shard of glass sliced across my neck as I dove through the opening, but I didn’t feel the pain. I hit the hallway running, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Help! My son! He’s not breathing! Somebody help me!” A few people in the waiting area looked up, confused and frightened. But the guards were on my heels, and Madison was right behind them, screaming, “Stop her! She’s a psych patient! She’s trying to steal medical supplies! She’s dangerous!” The bystanders hesitated. They saw a bleeding, hysterical woman being chased by hospital security. They didn’t see a mother. I saw a doctor in a white coat crossing the lobby. I threw myself in his path. “Please! Febrile seizure! He’s post-ictal and his airway is obstructed!” The doctor reached for Sam, his face shifting into professional concern, but Madison tackled me from behind, shoving the doctor away. “She’s a litigious nightmare! She’s been trashing the exam room! We have it under control!” The doctor saw the blood on my neck, saw Madison’s “Chief’s Protege” badge, and hesitated. He sighed, stepping back. “Sort it out with your department, Madison. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of a psych hold.” 3 He turned away. I wanted to scream until my vocal cords snapped. But the guards were closing in. I had to keep moving. I rounded a corner and saw a familiar face—Elena, the hematology nurse from earlier. She was coming out of a patient’s room. I grabbed her arm, my grip bruising. “Elena, please! You saw him! You know he’s sick! Get a doctor! Get anyone!” Elena looked at Sam’s limp, gray body and her face went pale. She reached out to take him, but Madison arrived, breathless and feral. “I am Nathan Miller’s personal student! If you touch that kid, you’re finished in this hospital!” Elena’s hand froze. I could see the terror in her eyes—the fear of losing a pension, a career, a livelihood. She looked like she was going to run. I leaned in, my voice a jagged whisper against her ear. “Find the Chief. Tell him his wife, Claire Miller, is here. Tell him Sam is dying.” Her eyes went wide. Before she could speak, the guards grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back. I looked at Elena with everything I had left in my soul. She looked at me, then at Madison, and then she turned and ran in the opposite direction. Madison smirked. “Take her back to the pediatric wing. We’re doing this my way.” The guards dragged me back to the exam room and forced me into a chair. Sam was back in my lap, but his movements were slowing down—not in a good way. He was becoming too still. Madison sat at the computer, her eyes glazed with a manic sort of focus. “Chest X-ray, EEG, and…” “He’s in respiratory distress!” I yelled. “You can’t do an X-ray yet! He needs oxygen! He needs a nebulizer!” Madison ripped the order from the printer and marched over to me. “You wanted a diagnosis? I’m giving you one. If I don’t rule out everything, you’ll just sue me anyway. I’m being thorough.” She reached down and snatched Sam from my arms. I fought, I screamed, but one of the guards wrapped his arms around my waist and yanked me back. I had to let go—if I struggled, I’d dislocate Sam’s shoulders. She ran out of the room with him. I broke free and chased her down the hall. She ducked into the CT suite. She threw Sam onto the cold, hard bed of the machine and started frantically punching buttons. Sam wasn’t moving. His chest was barely rising. She grabbed the heavy restraint straps and began buckling his tiny wrists and ankles to the table. She pulled them so tight they bit into his skin. “Stop it!” I screamed, pounding on the lead-lined glass. “He doesn’t need a CT! He needs an ER! You’re going to kill him!” Madison didn’t even look back. “He stopped seizing, didn’t he? That means I’m winning. Now be quiet, I have to figure out which button starts the scan.” She was guessing. She was playing with a million-dollar radiation machine like it was a toy, and my son was the guinea pig. 4 Panic turned into a cold, murderous clarity. “Madison isn’t a radiologist,” I said to the guards, my voice trembling with ice. “She’s practicing medicine without a license in there. When the board finds out, she’s gone. But what about you? You helped her. You kidnapped a Chief’s son.” One guard looked at the other, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. But the one holding the door stayed firm. “This kid is Nathan Miller’s son,” I said. “I sent someone to get him. He’s on his way. Think about your pensions. Think about your families.” They exchanged a look. They stepped back. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself into the CT room, shoved Madison aside with a force that sent her sprawling, and hit the emergency stop button on the machine. The whirring stopped. I fumbled with the straps, my fingers shaking so hard I could barely undo the buckles. “What are you doing!” Madison screamed, lunging for my hair. I got the last strap off. I pulled Sam into my arms, pressing his cool cheek to my neck. He was still breathing—just barely. I turned and leveled a slap across Madison’s face that echoed like a gunshot. “If anything happens to him, I will spend every cent I have to make sure you rot in a cell.” She touched her cheek, her eyes wide with shock. “Security! Get her out of here!” The guards moved in again, but this time they were hesitant. They grabbed my shoulders, but they weren’t being rough. “Throw her out!” Madison shrieked. “If she’s off hospital property when the kid crashes, it’s not our liability! Get her to the sidewalk!” The guards, terrified of the mess, decided the easiest way out was to follow her orders. They dragged me toward the main exit. “No! He needs a doctor! Please!” “Madison’s right,” the lead guard muttered, his face pale. “This is too much heat. If he dies here, we’re all dead. Just get out.” They threw me through the sliding glass doors. I tripped on the concrete steps, my knees slamming into the grit. I curled my body around Sam, taking the brunt of the fall. Madison followed us out, standing at the top of the stairs like a vengeful ghost. She kicked my shoulder, her heel digging into the bruise. “Report me now, bitch,” she hissed. Then she turned to the guards. “Don’t let her back in. She’s a trespasser.” I didn’t fight her. I looked down at Sam. His eyes were closed. His breath was so faint I had to put my ear to his mouth to hear it. The despair was a physical weight, crushing the air out of my lungs. My husband hadn’t come. Elena must have been too scared. Or maybe Nathan really was in a surgery he couldn’t leave. If I called an Uber to another hospital, Sam would be dead before it arrived. Then, the heavy glass doors behind Madison hissed open. Not a frantic slide, but a slow, heavy push that felt like the air pressure in the world was changing. A man in a white lab coat stepped out. I looked up through a veil of tears and blood. Nathan. Madison didn’t even turn around. She put on her best ‘professional’ voice. “Chief! Thank God you’re here. This woman… this ‘Claire’… she’s been having a psychotic break. She broke the CT machine, attacked me, and tried to kidnap this poor sick kid. I was just having her removed for the safety of the ward…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417784”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was 3:00 AM when the pounding started. It wasn’t a polite knock; it was the kind of violent, rhythmic thudding that threatened to tear the door right off its hinges. When I finally yanked it open, three men built like freight trains, their arms covered in heavy ink, shoved their way into the entryway. They tossed a stack of printed ledgers onto the console table. My brother-in-law’s underground gambling debt had snowballed with astronomical interest, hitting a staggering fifteen million dollars. And the emergency contact he had listed? Me. By the time I managed to talk them down and get them out the door, the sound of shattering porcelain echoed from the living room. “We’re getting a divorce,” Vera said. She stood in the archway, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Our custom-bound wedding album lay on the hardwood floor, its spine cracked from where she had just hurled it. “Don’t play dumb, Calvin. You can drown in your own bad debt, but don’t you dare try to drag me down with you.” I held up the crumpled ledgers, my heart hammering in my throat. “Vera, look at the name. This is Kyle’s—” She let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “Keep spinning it, Calvin! My brother was an honor roll student. You think I’d believe he’s betting millions?” Crack. The impact snapped my head to the side. Barbara, my mother-in-law, stood there panting, her heavy gold ring leaving a searing, raised welt across my cheek. “You absolute parasite,” Barbara spat, her eyes wild with venom. “You’d actually frame my son to get out of your own mess? Well, I’ve got news for you. Vera has been pregnant with Jared’s baby for weeks. Sign the papers and get the hell out of our lives.” I froze, my hand hovering over my burning cheek. I had actually been standing there, mentally calculating if I should pull out my emergency card to cover the spread. Instead, I had just walked into the firing squad of my own marriage. Fine. If that was how it was going to be, they could figure out how to pay off the fifteen million themselves. 1 My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. “You’re… you’re pregnant with Jared’s baby? Since when?” Vera rolled her eyes, her upper lip curling into a sneer. “What does it matter, Calvin? It is what it is. Are you going to try and police me now?” She stepped over the ruined wedding album. “Don’t even think about trying to win me back. I have zero interest in being tied to a pathetic, broke loser who can’t even own up to his own gambling problem.” I stood rooted to the floor. The air in the room felt too thin to breathe. Seeing my silence, Barbara stepped forward and shoved me hard in the chest. “Did you hear her? Tomorrow morning. The courthouse. We are done.” She turned to Vera, a conspiratorial, wicked little smirk playing on her lips. “Thank God you had the sense to take your pills before you ever let this deadbeat touch you.” She looked back at me, her gaze raking over me like I was garbage. “Otherwise, he’d try to use a kid to trap you into paying off his debts. We thought about letting him raise Jared’s baby, but honestly? He’s not even worth that.” The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “Wait… you were on the pill the entire time?” Three years of marriage. Three years of tracking ovulation windows, of empty pregnancy tests, of silent, crushing disappointment. Barbara had made it her personal mission to humiliate me at every family Thanksgiving, loudly whispering to her sisters that I was “firing blanks.” She had even marched me to a fertility clinic. My results had come back perfect, of course, but the narrative had already been set. She had been taking birth control the whole time. And their backup plan had been to let me raise another man’s child. Vera let out a cold huff of breath. “Oh, please. Don’t act like a victim. Look at how your family treated me. I’ve hated you since the day we talked about the ring!” “The ring and the wedding,” Barbara chimed in, spitting the words. “Took your family weeks to scrape together that pathetic down payment for the house. You looked so cheap. I told her not to marry you then.” A memory flashed behind my eyes, sharp and bitter. The morning of our wedding. My family had agreed to cover the entire cost of a lavish wedding and put a hefty down payment on a house for us. But on the day of the ceremony, as the hired town car idled outside the venue, Barbara refused to let Vera out of the car. She demanded an extra hundred thousand dollars, transferred immediately, as a “respect fee.” I was furious. It was blatant extortion. But Vera had sat in the back of the town car, mascara running down her cheeks, sobbing that she was her mother’s only daughter and to please just do it for her. I bit my tongue and authorized the wire. But it didn’t stop there. When we arrived at the reception, Barbara blocked the doors, demanding another hundred grand for her “blessing.” I was ready to call the whole thing off. It was a shakedown. But my dad had stepped in. He had placed a firm hand on my shoulder, smiled calmly, and wrote the check. A wedding is a celebration, he had said. Let’s not taint it with arguments. Thank God my father was a terrifyingly observant man. He had seen right through Barbara’s greed. That was the day he decided to completely conceal the fact that our family was worth billions. He even orchestrated it so the reception was held at a modest country club instead of the five-star resort we owned. They squeezed three hundred grand out of us that day, and not a penny more. Barbara hadn’t given Vera a single cent for a dowry, claiming my family “wasn’t worth matching.” Later, I found out she had taken that three hundred thousand and handed it directly to Kyle, who blew it in a matter of months. Time reveals a person’s true heart, my dad had told me. He had been entirely, unequivocally right. I drew in a long, shaky breath and pulled out my phone. “Fine. We’ll divorce. But I am not taking the fall for Kyle’s debts. I’m calling him right now to get this straight.” 2 I called Kyle three times. It went straight to voicemail every single time. Vera lunged forward, slapping the phone out of my hand. It clattered against the baseboards. “You know damn well he’s backpacking in Europe and doesn’t have cell service! You’re just trying to frame him!” Barbara kicked my phone across the hallway. “You’re delusional if you think we’re paying for your screw-ups. You made your bed, now die in it.” Before I could retrieve my phone, the front door burst open. Jared stormed into the entryway, his face flushed with manufactured outrage. “You are a piece of work, Calvin. Fifteen million dollars? Are you out of your mind?” Vera immediately melted into his side, burying her face in his chest. “Jared, he’s trying to blame it on my brother.” Jared pressed a kiss into Vera’s hair, his eyes locking onto mine with a sickening mix of triumph and pity. “Pack your things, babe. You’re coming to stay at my place. I’m not letting some loan sharks terrorize you and my son because of his mistakes.” He caught the look of absolute shock on my face and let out a harsh laugh. “What? Did you really think she was going to those ‘yoga retreats’ every time you went on a business trip? Please. She’s slept in my bed more times than she’s slept in yours.” He threw me one last look of utter disgust, grabbed Vera’s hand, and the three of them walked out the door without looking back. The betrayal wasn’t just Vera. It was Jared. Jared and I had been fraternity brothers. Years ago, when he was flat broke and facing eviction, I had quietly loaned him ten thousand dollars, no questions asked. When he couldn’t find a job to save his life, I pulled some strings and got him an entry-level position at a mid-sized tech firm. Over the years, he climbed the ladder, eventually hitting an executive role pulling in half a million a year. What I never told him was that my father owned the parent company. I was still standing in the ruins of my living room when my Apple Watch buzzed. It was my VP of Operations. “Calvin, you need to get to the office. Now. It’s bad.” I didn’t ask questions. I grabbed my keys and drove. When the elevator doors dinged open on my floor, it was pure chaos. Vera, Barbara, and Jared were standing in the middle of the open-plan bullpen, shouting. Vera was waving a document at our head of legal. “As of today, I am divesting every single share I have in this sinking ship! I want out!” Jared snatched the divestment forms, slapping them on the desk. “Process it immediately. Once the divorce is finalized, his fifteen million dollar debt has absolutely nothing to do with us.” Barbara had positioned herself near the glass conference room where two of our biggest clients were sitting. “Don’t do business with this place!” she screeched through the glass. “The CEO is a degenerate gambler! Run while you still can!” The clients exchanged alarmed looks, quietly gathered their briefcases, and slipped out the side door. But Barbara wasn’t done. She turned to my stunned employees. “Watch your wallets, people! Your boss owes the mob fifteen million! He’s going to liquidate the company and skip town. You’re never seeing your next paycheck!” I watched as my staff began quietly packing their laptops and whispering frantically to one another. “Holy shit, fifteen million? Is he actually going to run?” “He always seemed so normal… but if his wife and mother-in-law are here…” “Even his best friend turned on him. I’m updating my resume right now.” I shoved my way through the crowd. “Enough! If you cost this company one more dollar in damages, I will sue all three of you into oblivion for defamation!” Jared stepped in front of Vera, playing the valiant protector. “You owe the money, Calvin! It’s the truth!” The whispering in the bullpen grew louder. And then, the glass doors opened again. My mother walked in. She looked around the chaotic room, bewildered. “Calvin? What’s going on? Didn’t you just buy me that sapphire necklace from the Sotheby’s auction?” My stomach dropped. I had completely forgotten we had plans for an early dinner. Vera let out a shrill, ugly laugh. “Sotheby’s? Helen, your son bought that with dirty money from loan sharks!” She crossed her arms. “Enjoy your little toys now, because you’ll be weeping when the collectors come for your house.” Vera paused, a cruel smile spreading across her lips. “And thank God the baby I’m carrying has nothing to do with your pathetic bloodline. Otherwise, my kid would be cursed, too.” “What?!” My mother’s face drained of color. She lunged forward, grabbing Vera’s sleeve as she tried to walk past. “What did you just say?!” Vera ripped her arm away with a look of pure revulsion. “Are you deaf, you old bat? The kid isn’t yours!” My mother already had a fragile heart condition. The sudden, violent shove, combined with the shock, was too much. She stumbled backward, clutching her chest, her breath catching in a terrifying wheeze. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the carpet. 3 “Mom!” I sprinted across the room, catching her shoulders before her head hit the floor. “Mom, look at me!” Vera scoffed, adjusting her purse. “God, your family loves playing the victim. She’s faking it to try and extort us. Let’s go, this place is depressing.” Without a backward glance, the three of them marched to the elevators. My mother’s lips were turning a faint shade of blue. She couldn’t speak. Her eyes rolled back as she lost consciousness. I screamed for someone to call 911. In the emergency room, the air was thick with the smell of antiseptic. The attending physician pulled me aside. “Her blood pressure spiked to a critical level. It was a hypertensive crisis triggered by extreme emotional distress. We need to admit her to the cardiac ICU for observation.” I walked out to the quiet hospital corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, and dialed my father. He was in London on a corporate acquisition. “Calvin?” his voice was deep, steady. I told him everything. The debt, the affair, the baby, the ambush at the office, and Mom. There was a long, heavy silence on the line. I could almost hear the temperature in the room dropping. “I’m fueling the jet,” my dad said softly. “I will be back by morning. They have no idea what they’ve done.” He paused. “Take care of your mother. Do not lift a finger against Jared or the Jiang family. I will handle them.” After I hung up, I sat in the plastic chair by the ICU window. I pulled up my banking app. I went to the authorized user settings and terminated the black card I had given Vera. I had always told her it was a basic debit card with a strict ten-thousand-dollar monthly limit for “groceries and household expenses.” She thought I was just diligently paying it off every month. She had no idea it was an invitation-only Centurion card with a hundred-million-dollar limit. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a barrage of texts from Jared. The first was a photo. Jared and Vera in bed together, her head resting on his chest, both of them smiling at the camera. Then came the voice notes. “Hey man, tough break. Honestly, I’d help you out, but you’re in way too deep. Have you thought about selling yourself on the corner to pay it off?” Another ding. “Might be good practice for you. Vera said you were basically useless in bed anyway. That’s why she had to come to me.” A dark, hollow laugh scraped its way out of my throat. “I gave you your entire life,” I whispered to the empty hallway. “And this is how you repay me.” Another voice note auto-played. “Honestly, back in college, I only hung out with you because I thought you were actually loaded. If I knew you were the kind of loser who had to borrow from the mob to look cool, I wouldn’t have given you the time of day.” I didn’t reply. I just blocked his number. The next morning, I drove back to the house to grab some clothes so I could stay at the hospital with my mom. When I unlocked the front door, Vera, Barbara, and Jared were sitting in my living room like they owned the place. Vera stood up, marching toward me, and slapped me across the face. “You have a lot of nerve showing your face. We were supposed to be at the courthouse an hour ago! You’re trying to stall!” Barbara shoved me from behind. “I knew it! He’s trying to drag it out so we get stuck with the bill!” I shoved them both back, my patience entirely evaporated. “My mother is in the ICU because of you, and you think I give a damn about your schedule?” Vera let out a dry, rattling laugh. “It’s your mother, not mine. Why should I care?” Jared stepped up, slamming a manila folder against my chest. “I had my lawyers draft it. Sign the damn papers, Calvin.” Vera tossed a pen at my feet. “I made sure it’s legally airtight. I am walking away with zero assets. I get nothing, which means I absorb exactly zero percent of your debt. Sign it. Don’t ruin my wedding with Jared.” I stared at her, an icy calm washing over me. It was almost funny. In her desperation to dodge a fifteen-million-dollar phantom debt, she was willingly signing away her legal right to half of a multi-billion-dollar empire. I picked up the pen and scrawled my name on the dotted line. Jared grabbed my arm, trying to yank me toward the door. “Good. Now we go to the clerk and file it. Nothing else matters today.” I ripped my arm out of his grip. “My mother is having a cardiac procedure this afternoon. I don’t have time.” Barbara kicked me sharply in the shin. “Shut your mouth! Even if your mother drops dead today, you are filing these papers first!” They practically physically dragged me out of the house and down to the municipal courthouse.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417783”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The candles on my son’s birthday cake had just been lit when my phone screen flared to life in the dimmed room. Looking at the disjointed, defensive texts Christian was firing off, my finger hovered over the keyboard. Suddenly, a quiet, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “They’re terrified of the dark, Phoebe. Both of them. I have to stay.” Five years ago, Cassidy—the woman who had used his sperm to give birth to his illegitimate child—had somehow morphed into his “family,” the person he absolutely had to comfort on every major holiday. Meanwhile, my son Benji and I had been relegated to the role of outsiders who simply needed to be “understanding.” “Got it,” I typed back, my fingers moving with a terrifying lightness. “Theo is still young. You should comfort him.” Through the receiver, I could hear his heavy sigh of relief. “I knew you’d be the reasonable one… I let Theo play with the Transformer Benji got. He didn’t throw a tantrum about it, did he?” I turned my head to look at my son by the dining table. Seven-year-old Benji was meticulously aligning two porcelain plates. Hearing the voice from the speaker, he just quietly picked up my phone. “Dad, it’s Theo’s birthday today, right? I’m the younger brother. It’s okay if he has it.” That Transformer was a prized possession. Benji had clutched his allowance and walked three miles in the snow last week just to buy it. When Christian had broken his promise to come home for Christmas, Benji had cried, begging for a makeup gift from his father. And now, he had just casually “let it go.” I knelt and gently straightened Benji’s collar. He looked up at me, his dark eyes uncharacteristically flat. “Mom? When are we moving out?” The moonlight caught the tips of his eyelashes, and in that fleeting, quiet space, it hit me: my seven-year-old son had already learned how to bury his heart. He was right. This marriage, a grotesque theater spanning two households, should have ended the moment my son looked at me and said, I want to go with you. 1 “What are you packing for at this hour?” It was early morning when Christian finally walked through the door. His freshly changed shirt carried the faint, cloying scent of another woman’s floral perfume. It burned the back of my throat. I kept my focus on the cardboard box, sidestepping his attempt at an embrace. “Nothing. Just getting rid of some junk.” A relaxed, almost patronizing smile played on Christian’s lips. “Five years, and you two have finally learned how to behave.” He gestured to a shopping bag on the counter. “Cassidy is incredibly frugal. She didn’t want me wasting money, so she insisted I bring back two gifts from her place. Don’t let them go to waste.” Frugal? When Theo was three, he threw a fit because he wanted a newly opened private amusement park all to himself. Cassidy had looked at Christian with those big, distressed eyes until he bought out the venue and put it in Theo’s name. That was when she finally smiled. She loved to claim she didn’t care for designer labels. Yet, the moment she received them, they’d be plastered all over her Instagram, captioned about how someone truly understands my heart. Not to mention the vaults of high-end jewelry she had purchased under my name over the years. Christian wasn’t blind to it. He just chose to indulge it. “Thanks,” I said. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I picked up the toy car with a missing wheel and a frayed, worn-out cashmere scarf, tossing them straight into the black trash bag in the corner. Then, I went back to folding my sweaters. “You’re still hung up on this.” The smugness vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, knowing irritation. “First you move into the guest room, and now that you’re not screaming and throwing things, you’re playing the insomnia card to punish yourself.” He stepped closer, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Phoebe, I told you. Don’t try to mimic Cassidy’s clinical depression. That manipulative act doesn’t work on me.” It wasn’t insomnia. It was the simple act of waking up early because, for the first time in years, I was actually sleeping through the night. My therapist had told me that once I started distancing myself from the source of my anxiety, the healing would begin. Five years of severe postpartum depression. If he had ever bothered to open my nightstand drawer, he would have found the graveyard of prescription bottles. But he never looked. Whenever I broke down, he dismissed it with a single, flippant word: Acting. I absentmindedly traced the faint, silver scar on my wrist. A phantom ache rippled through my chest. There was a time when a mere shift in my gaze would tell Christian I was upset. Back then, whether the issue was a shattered glass or a shattered dream, I was his priority. He used to hold my face and say, Phoebe, I refuse to let you go to sleep with a heavy heart. But after Cassidy got “sick,” his vocabulary shifted to: Whatever you say. You’re being irrational. Stop making a scene. Christian let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I’ll say it one last time. Cassidy and I grew up together. If something was going to happen between us, it would have happened decades ago. Even when I have to stay over on the holidays, haven’t I always FaceTimed you to prove I’m just sleeping on the couch?” He reached out, his voice softening into that practiced, persuasive cadence. “You’re the only one I love. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have let my father freeze my trust fund and strip me of my board seat just to defy my family and marry you.” The old Phoebe would have spiraled. She would have interrogated him, screamed at him like a madwoman, demanded proof. But it had been five years. I was just so, so tired. Seeing my silence, he impatiently grabbed the box I was taping up. The bottom gave out, spilling its contents across the hardwood floor. Christian froze. He stared down at the scattered pile of custom, handmade gifts he had spent years crafting for me. “You’re selling these? Phoebe! You know exactly how much time and soul I poured into making these for you.” I gave a curt nod. “The pink diamonds, the sapphires… the raw materials are worth a fortune.” Not to mention the exorbitant fees he paid master jewelers in Europe to teach him the craft. They would fetch a decent price at auction. After all, we had signed an ironclad prenup. If we divorced, I wouldn’t get a single cent of the Prescott fortune. Christian let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “A decade of our history, and you’re reducing it to a price tag? You’re just going to trash my heart like this?” It was funny. When I used to drown in our memories, desperately bringing up our past to remind him of who we used to be, he would look at me with sheer disgust. Now, his outrage just felt bizarre. “You’re the one who told me to stop leaving this ‘junk’ out where you could see it. Selling it seems like a win-win.” He stood frozen in the middle of the room for a long time, the light in his eyes fracturing into something dark and unrecognizable. “Also…” When I pulled the divorce papers from the console drawer, Christian slammed the front door so hard the walls shook. The housekeeper silently swept the jewelry back into the storage room. Left behind on the kitchen island was the Prescott Black Card—the one Cassidy had been keeping “safe” for him. 2 I assumed Christian left the Black Card because he thought I was short on cash. I didn’t realize it was the admission fee for moving Cassidy back into my home. When I picked Benji up from school and walked through the front doors, the blood drained from my face. They were standing in my foyer. A wave of pure nausea hit the back of my throat. Six years ago, she had used the exact same excuse—wanting to “care for family”—to infiltrate our marital home. She played the dutiful little sister until she managed to get pregnant, fled to Europe, and only returned when she was about to give birth. Cassidy turned toward me, her eyes curving into that familiar, sickeningly sweet smile. “Phoebe! I decided to move back in with the baby. This way, Christian won’t have to exhaust himself running between two houses. Most importantly, he hasn’t spent a single holiday with you two in five years. I just felt so guilty about it.” Benji tugged hard at my hand. His voice was tight, trembling with a suppressed wrongness. “Mom. Theo is in my bedroom.” That room. Christian and I had painted the walls and assembled the crib together before we were even married. Snapping back to reality, I looked up the sweeping staircase and saw the movers hauling boxes. A hot, blinding rage spiked through my skull. “Stop right there!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “Who gave you permission to touch my son’s room?” The movers froze, exchanging panicked glances with a now awkwardly smiling Cassidy. Before I could move, Christian’s hand clamped around my bicep, dragging me forcefully into his oak-paneled study. “Ignore her. Keep moving,” he ordered the men over his shoulder. I looked back just in time to see the tiny, hopeful spark in Benji’s eyes extinguish completely. He pressed his lips into a thin white line and didn’t say another word. My heart twisted into a brutal knot. Once the study doors clicked shut, I wrenched my arm free. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. “You promised me,” I hissed. “You swore she would never step foot in this house again! What the hell is this?” “And that is Benji’s room! Did you even ask him before you handed it over to Theo?” Christian couldn’t meet my red-rimmed eyes. He looked everywhere but at me, dodging the question. “Phoebe, we’ve talked about this. Cassidy’s parents were my family’s closest friends. After they died in that crash, she grew up tiptoeing behind me like a shadow. Yes, she was young, and she made a mistake. But I can’t leave her homeless.” A mistake. Cassidy was exactly two years younger than me. I stared at him, my vision tunneling into ice. “So this is your solution? Running two households under one roof?” Christian’s brow furrowed, his handsome face twisting into a mask of pure annoyance. “What two households? We are one family. I view Cassidy as a sister. Stop being so deeply paranoid all the time!” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Having that specific room was Theo’s birthday wish. Yes, he was born a few minutes before Benji, but he was premature. He’s fragile. Benji should be yielding to him. It builds character.” Five years. I thought the human body eventually built an immunity to this kind of pain. But the tearing sensation in my chest was just as visceral as the first day. “Use the Black Card for whatever you want,” Christian continued, his tone shifting into a patronizingly calm executive mode. “You’ll manage the household affairs from now on. Cassidy’s clinical depression is finally stabilizing, and her doctors said she needs absolute rest.” It wasn’t just about protecting Cassidy. He gave me the card to ensure I wouldn’t “mistreat” the mother and son financially. A heavy, suffocating exhaustion draped over me. I dug my fingernails into my palms until they broke the skin. My voice came out as a raspy whisper. “Keep it. You can give them every square inch of this house. We’ll be out by tonight.” My brother, Spencer, had already booked first-class tickets back to Chicago the moment I told him I was filing for divorce. Crashing at a Four Seasons for a few days before our flight was nothing. Christian froze. “You…” The study door creaked open. Cassidy stood there, tears slipping down her porcelain cheeks right on cue. “Christian… maybe Theo and I should just leave.” She choked out a sob. “The moment I arrived, Phoebe looked at me with such hatred. I’ve been buying her apology gifts for five years and she throws them all away. She’s never going to forgive me.” Christian’s expression darkened instantly. He stepped protectively in front of her. “Can you please stop triggering Cassidy’s condition with your toxic ultimatums?” I didn’t even look at Cassidy. I unzipped my designer tote, pulled out the manila envelope, and dropped it onto the mahogany desk. “Christian. We are getting a divorce.” 3 “Isn’t this what you wanted? For them to move in?” I said. “Sign the papers, and I won’t put up a fight.” Staring at the divorce agreement, a flash of genuine shock—followed immediately by poorly concealed ecstasy—crossed Cassidy’s face. Christian didn’t reach for the pen. But the woman cowering behind him suddenly burst into loud, theatrical wails. “Phoebe, even if you hate us, you can’t use divorce to threaten Christian! Do you have any idea what he sacrificed for you? He still has the scars on his back from defying the Prescott patriarch!” In the past, the mere mention of what Christian had suffered for our marriage would send me into a hyperventilating panic. I would break down, and then, like a pathetic clown, I would be banished to my room to “reflect on my behavior.” Today, I just stood there, looking at the two of them as if watching a poorly written soap opera. I felt absolutely nothing. Enraged by my deadpan silence, Christian snatched the Montblanc pen from his desk. He pressed down so hard the nib nearly tore through the thick parchment. “I am out of patience, Phoebe. I am not going to coddle you and beg you to come back this time.” Over the last five years, Christian had signed divorce papers twice. But back then, I was still deep in my trauma-bonding phase. Every time he pulled away, I panicked and ripped them up. Never again. Spencer had retained the most vicious divorce attorney in Chicago. The paperwork was ironclad, and since we’d already initiated the process before, it would be finalized rapidly. As we stepped out of the study, Theo ran up and wrapped his arms tightly around Christian’s legs, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. “Daddy! Does this mean you can read me and Mommy bedtime stories every single night now?” The little boy pouted. “I hate having you sing me to sleep through the phone. Mommy hates it too.” At the word Mommy, Christian flinched. His eyes darted toward me, a flash of genuine panic crossing his face. Seeing my completely blank expression, he swallowed hard and scooped Theo into his arms. “Of course I can, buddy.” Deep into the night, just as Christian quietly opened the door to the master bedroom, the harsh buzzing of his phone woke me. I sat up, irritated, ready to shut the door on him. But through the crack, I heard his voice drop into a furious, panicked hiss. “Mom! Why the hell are you bringing this up now? You know the mental state Phoebe is in!” Margaret Prescott’s shrill, aristocratic voice bled through the receiver. “Phoebe is infertile because her body is weak, Noel. Don’t put that on me! Five years ago, she went into labor early. If you hadn’t redirected the entire private OB-GYN team and the life-support equipment to Cassidy, Phoebe wouldn’t have hemorrhaged so badly. It’s her fault her body broke.” Margaret paused, her tone turning venomous. “Let her divorce you. Good riddance. Now you can have legitimate heirs with Cassidy!” I stopped breathing. My hand locked onto the brass doorknob with a grip so tight my knuckles turned bone-white. That wasn’t what they told me. They had looked me in the eye as I bled out on those hospital sheets, and told me the elite medical team was stranded out of state at a medical conference. Christian paced the hallway like a caged animal. “I was in the delivery room with Cassidy! I didn’t know how bad Phoebe’s complications were! And you swore to me we would take that secret to our graves!” No wonder he hadn’t answered my calls. I could still taste the metallic tang of fear and absolute despair from that sterile hospital room… “I owe Phoebe for that,” Christian whispered, his voice cracking. “Once Cassidy’s mental health is stable, I plan to spend the rest of my life making it up to Phoebe and Benji.” “But Mom,” his tone sharpened into a warning. “This was your brilliant idea. You were the one who wanted Cassidy’s kid to be born a few minutes earlier so he could legally be the firstborn heir to the Prescott trust. Don’t act like this was an accident.” He stopped pacing. “Letting Cassidy move back in to treat her ‘depression’ is my final compromise. If you interfere with my marriage again, I won’t hold back, mother or not.” Margaret’s voice lost some of its bite. “It’s the Prescott family rule, Noel. You need a strong heir. You can’t blame me for securing our legacy. Who asked Phoebe to cut ties with the Montgomery empire just to be with you? She practically turned herself into an orphan with zero leverage to offer us.” Under the dim hallway sconces, Christian’s profile was set in arrogant certainty. Meanwhile, the last remaining embers of my heart turned into ash. “Exactly,” Christian sneered into the phone. “That’s why Phoebe’s divorce threats are empty. She has nowhere else to go. She can’t survive without me.” 4 The conversation detonated in my skull like a fragmentation grenade. When I first found out Cassidy had given birth to Christian’s child, I had shattered. I was sitting in my own postpartum recovery room, staring at the wall. I didn’t understand. If he was so satisfied with the daughter-in-law his parents had handpicked for him, why did he tear his family apart to marry me? Later, he had confessed. He swore he loved me. But he claimed he just couldn’t abandon the “fragile sister” who had devoted her childhood to caring for him, whose obsession with him had driven her to clinical illness. It turned out, those two months Christian spent painstakingly nursing me back to health, wiping away my tears, holding my hand… it wasn’t love. It was guilt. Pure, suffocating guilt for almost killing me. As reality crashed back in, I realized my face was soaked with tears. But the blinding pain was gone. The final, microscopic tether tying my soul to Noel Prescott simply evaporated. All I had to do was finish my final campaign launch at the firm, and I could resign in peace. On my last day at Prescott Media, my team was buzzing with electric energy. “Phoebe, you spent three years fighting for the Apex Meridian account. When this contract drops today, you are guaranteed the VP spot!” “Seriously, thank you for mentoring us. We are taking you out for champagne the second the ink is dry.” They all knew who I was. They knew I was the CEO’s wife, but they had watched me bleed for this company, building my reputation from the ground up without ever using his name. I forced a tight, professional smile. “Thank you, guys, but I—” The heavy glass doors of the conference room shattered the moment. Christian stormed in, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, unhinged fury. “Phoebe! Are you out of your mind?!” He slammed a manila folder onto the mahogany table. Glossy 8×10 photographs spilled out. They were the photos I had commissioned a private investigator to take years ago, when I first suspected his affair. Pictures of Cassidy and Theo at a park. Pictures of Christian, looking every bit the devoted father, standing intimately close to Cassidy. Until today, Theo’s existence had been completely buried from the public eye. The conference room erupted into frantic, hushed whispers. “Wait, Cassidy has a kid? I thought she was just the Prescott’s ward? Since when is she married?” “Look at the kid’s eyes… he looks exactly like Mr. Prescott.” “Oh my god. Is that a love child…?” Trailing behind Christian, Cassidy stood in the doorway, her face stained with expertly applied tears. Christian didn’t ask me for an explanation. He played judge, jury, and executioner in front of my entire staff. “Call security,” he barked at the room. He didn’t believe me. He didn’t even care to. Cassidy let out a choked, trembling sob. “Did you really have to destroy my life just to punish me? You want me dead, don’t you?” Christian wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. He looked at me with an expression of pure, glacial disgust. “This is an internal company matter. We will handle it privately.” At the finish line, my name was stripped from the Apex Meridian project. Cassidy was named the lead director. Because of the “scandal,” the client threatened to pull out. Christian demanded I use my personal savings to cover the multi-million dollar corporate damages. “Absolutely not!” I slammed my hands on the table. “Christian, I didn’t leak those photos, and you have zero legal right to touch my money!” He didn’t waste his breath. He flipped open a laptop on the table and typed rapidly into the banking portal we shared. My phone chimed. I looked down at the notification. My checking account, my savings, everything I had built over five years. Balance: $0.00. My hands began to shake violently. Then, my phone rang again. It was Benji. He was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. “Mom… Mom, the principal said there was a mistake with the enrollment list. Theo is going to Oakridge Academy today, not me. His mom took him yesterday to take my spot.” Oakridge Academy. The elite, impossible-to-get-into international prep school Benji and I had spent months preparing for. He had studied for weeks just to pass the interview. Across the room, safely tucked under Christian’s arm, Cassidy gave me a subtle, victorious smirk. She mouthed two words: He’s mine. The humiliation, the theft, the five years of gaslighting and quiet suffering—the moment the line with my crying son went dead, something inside me snapped. “Aah!” Rational thought evaporated. I lunged across the space, my fingers twisting violently into Cassidy’s perfectly styled hair. She let out a piercing, bloody scream. Crack. The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. My head snapped violently to the side. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. The entire room sucked in a collective breath. Dead silence. “You are completely out of control!” Christian roared, his chest heaving. “Get the hell out of my company!” “Don’t you dare come back until you are ready to get on your knees and apologize to her!” He met my eyes—eyes devoid of tears, burning with a cold, absolute hatred—and for a fraction of a second, he faltered. He opened his mouth to say something, but Cassidy’s loud, dramatic wailing instantly pulled him back. Security guards grabbed my arms, dragging me out of the building like a criminal. The moment I hit the pavement outside, my phone buzzed. It was Spencer’s attorney. “Ms. Montgomery. The divorce decree just came through the judge’s chambers. Should I have a courier bring it to you?” I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. My voice was eerily steady. “No need. Shred it.” I didn’t want to look at a single piece of paper with his name on it ever again. “Just have the driver pick up Benji immediately. Meet me at the private terminal at Logan.” Two hours later, Benji and I stood in the sweeping expanse of the airport terminal. The final boarding call for our flight to Chicago echoed through the speakers, harmonizing perfectly with Christian’s name flashing on my phone screen. I stared at the name for three long seconds. Then, I popped the SIM card out, snapped the plastic in half, and dropped it into a nearby trash can. Taking Benji’s small, warm hand, I walked through the security gate. Goodbye forever. Noel Prescott.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417782”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Working the register at a bodega by day, scrubbing grease off plates in a diner pit by night, and weaving through the city on a beat-up Vespa delivering food at 2:00 AM. I had spun myself into the ground like a top for three straight years, all to pay off my parents’ “crippling debt.” I lived on stale bagels and complimentary diner saltines, ignoring the sharp, twisting cramps in my stomach because I couldn’t bear to spend a single dime on a doctor. It wasn’t until the pain doubled me over on the diner floor, until the ER doctor handed me a chart with the words Gastric Cancer printed in stark black ink and told me I needed to be admitted immediately, that I finally pulled out my phone with trembling fingers to check my banking app. The fifteen thousand dollars I had bled for—my life-saving surgery money—was gone. “Oh, sweetie, we just needed to borrow that money to float some things. Just give us a little more time, okay?” My mother’s voice through the receiver was as sweet and gentle as always. But hours later, clutching my agonizing stomach in the biting 3:00 AM chill, I walked up the driveway of an estate that was lit up brighter than a stadium, and my entire body went rigid. Through the massive bay windows, beneath a cascading crystal chandelier, I watched my father clasp a limited-edition diamond necklace around a stranger’s neck. I watched my mother cut into a custom, multi-tiered cake that easily cost ten grand. They were beaming. It was a radiant, easy warmth I had never, ever seen them direct at me. Over two decades of yearning for a family, and it turned out to be nothing but a meticulously engineered lie. I, the biological daughter who had been switched at birth, was nothing but a lab rat in their twisted social experiment—a test to see if I was “pure” enough for their world. The blood, sweat, and health I had sacrificed had simply funded the fireworks display for the fake heiress’s birthday bash. … 1 I don’t know how I made it back to my apartment. Walking away from that sprawling estate, it felt like my soul had been scooped out of my body. Even as I lay on my lumpy twin mattress, the numbness refused to lift. I stared up at the water-stained ceiling for God knows how long before the rattle of a key turning in the deadbolt echoed through the cramped space. I sat up just as my parents walked in. They had shed the clearly bespoke tuxedo and the designer silk gown they wore at the party, trading them in for the faded, dust-colored work uniforms they always wore around me. They looked exactly like a struggling, blue-collar couple. Seeing me awake, they blinked in surprise. “Gemma, you’re home early,” my father said. “Did you skip your shift?” I forced the corners of my mouth upward. “Yeah. My head was pounding. I needed to lie down.” “A headache?” My mother immediately dropped the plastic shopping bag she was holding and hurried over. Her warm palm pressed against my forehead, her voice dripping with unfiltered maternal concern. “You don’t feel warm. Why the sudden headache? Did you take some Tylenol?” I lowered my eyes. “I took some.” My father picked up the plastic bag and held it out to me. “Gemma, it’s your birthday today. Your mom and I don’t have the means to get you a big cake or anything fancy.” He smiled, looking perfectly apologetic. “But we picked up this little pastry. Give it a try.” I let my gaze drop to the box. Inside was a delicate, intricate little dessert. The kind of artisanal confection I would never dream of buying for myself. If this had happened yesterday, my eyes would have welled with tears. I would have felt a profound, overwhelming gratitude that my parents, despite drowning in debt, had scraped together pennies to remember my birthday. I would have thought it was proof of their unconditional love. Now, all I felt was a sickening wave of irony. Because I was the one who delivered that pastry. The little princess, surrounded by her adoring orbit of socialites, had ordered from this high-end bakery on a whim. And when I handed it to her, she had wrinkled her nose in utter disgust. “This looks so cheap. I don’t want it. Someone throw it away,” she had sneered. I never imagined my parents would fish it out and bring it to me. And I certainly never imagined that the specific pastry they handed me was the complimentary day-old sample the bakery threw into the bag for free. Was that all I was worth in their eyes? The rejected freebie? It felt like a bottle of vinegar had shattered in my chest, the acidity burning my throat, but my face remained perfectly blank. I took the little box and set it on the nightstand. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you, Mom.” My frigid response threw them off. In their script, the poor, grateful daughter was supposed to be thrilled by this scrap of sugar. But remembering my excuse about being sick, they let it slide. Until I opened my mouth and brought up the fifteen thousand dollars again. “Mom, Dad… I really have an emergency. I need that fifteen grand back. I can’t wait a month. Can you wire it to me tomorrow?” Their faces shifted instantly. The warm masks slipped, revealing a flash of deep irritation. “I wondered why you suddenly had a ‘headache.’ You’re just trying to shake us down,” my father snapped, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t we already tell you that money went toward the debt?” My mother looked at me with profound disappointment. “Gemma, what kind of trouble are you in that you suddenly need that kind of cash? Where on earth are we supposed to magically find fifteen thousand dollars right now?” She sighed heavily. “Have you been hanging around the wrong crowd? You were never like this before.” 2 Listening to their self-righteous lecture, my mind flashed back to the necklace. A pink diamond. The stone was the size of a sugar cube. I had heard the whispered gasps of the party guests, murmuring about how Richard Montgomery had won it at Sotheby’s for over fifteen million dollars. Fifteen million. A thousand times the amount I was begging for. Yet these people, who threw around millions without blinking, were looking at me as if asking for my own hard-earned money was an unforgivable moral failing. I gave a weak, hollow laugh. A bone-deep exhaustion settled into my marrow. “Forget it. I don’t need it.” I lay back down and pulled the thin blanket to my chin. My parents exchanged a look. They still seemed annoyed, but they didn’t push it. The apartment went dead silent. I lay there in the dark, my eyes wide open, listening. A few minutes later, the whispering started. “Is she asleep?” “Think so. Let me check.” Footsteps crept toward my bed. I instantly squeezed my eyes shut, slowing my breathing into a rhythmic, sleeping cadence. Satisfied I was out cold, they dropped the act. “God, how much longer do we have to live in this dump?” my father muttered. “Just endure it. One more month and the three-year mark is up,” my mother whispered back. “Then we can bring her home.” She paused, a hint of hesitation in her voice. “Richard… do you think Gemma will be angry when she finds out we’ve been lying?” “Angry about what?” my father scoffed dismissively. “Do you know how many vultures are circling, trying to latch onto the Montgomery name? If Margot hadn’t suggested this little test, how else would we know if Gemma actually wanted us for us, or just for the trust fund?” “True. And honestly, the girl isn’t bad. She’s supported us for almost three years. Her perspective is just… so horribly narrow.” My mother sighed, sounding legitimately aggrieved. “We take fifteen grand from her, and she acts like the world is ending.” My father grunted in agreement. “Well, she wasn’t raised in our world. She’s miles behind Margot. Blood or no blood, Margot is a true Montgomery. She just carries herself like old money.” He paused. “I just hope when this test is over, Gemma doesn’t embarrass us at the country club.” Their voices faded as they finally went to sleep. I didn’t open my eyes, but the tears finally slipped free, tracking hot and silent into my pillow. They really committed to the bit. Two titans of industry, slumming it in a roach-infested studio, playing the destitute parents. But why? Because their unfathomable wealth gave them the right to play God with my life? Did they think my “narrow perspective” was a genetic flaw? Did they think I liked starving? If I had been raised in the Montgomery estate alongside Margot, given a black Amex and an Ivy League pipeline, I wouldn’t have grown up like a weed in the cracks of a sidewalk. But I was a product of the foster system. I grew up wearing hand-me-downs, bracing myself against the pitying, patronizing stares of my classmates because I was the girl with no one. Because of that, I became fiercely independent. I built walls. I studied until my eyes bled, dragged myself through a state college on scholarships, and secured a decent corporate job that, to a normal person, was a massive success. Before they suddenly appeared three years ago claiming I was theirs, I had made my peace with the fact that I would never know a mother’s touch or a father’s pride. Then they showed up. They unearthed every buried, pathetic childhood fantasy I had. I let myself believe I finally had a family. I told myself it didn’t matter if we were broke. I was young. I could work three jobs. I could save them. But I guess the universe just liked a good joke. I had stomach cancer, and the parents I had worshipped were billionaires who had been running a psychological operation on me since day one. I reached out and touched the little pastry box in the dark. It was beautiful. My coworkers used to save up just to split a box from that bakery. But it wasn’t just a pastry. It was garbage. A discarded afterthought. To my parents, that’s exactly what I was. A girl meant to endure the dirt, worthy only of the scraps Margot threw away. That night felt like an eternity. I didn’t sleep a wink. My stomach spasmed in violent, rhythmic waves. I was just trying to sit up to grab my painkillers when a sudden, aggressive pounding rattled the front door. My parents jolted awake. “Who the hell is banging on the door at this hour?” my father grumbled, rubbing his face. I was closest to the door. Swallowing a groan, I dragged myself up and opened it, my eyes still red and swollen. Two uniformed NYPD officers stood in the hallway. The lead officer looked me up and down. “Gemma Montgomery? Where were you last night around 2:00 AM? Can you account for your whereabouts?” His tone was sharp, bordering on hostile. I swallowed hard, leaning against the doorframe. “I was working TaskRabbit. I delivered some baked goods.” My parents were up now. Seeing the badges, my father immediately stepped in front of me, playing the protective patriarch. “Officers, is there a problem? Has something happened to our daughter?” I stared at their backs. The knot in my chest twisted tighter. They were such incredible actors. If they cared this much, how could they watch me bleed myself dry for them? The officer’s voice snapped me back. “Gemma,” he said coldly. “You are a suspect in the grand larceny of high-value property. We need you to come down to the precinct for questioning.” 3 My parents whipped around, their eyes wide with perfectly performed horror. The immediate, instinctual suspicion in their gaze pierced through the wreckage of my heart. “I didn’t steal anything,” I said, my voice shaking. “Why are you looking at me like that?” They quickly adjusted their expressions, turning back to the cops. “Officers, there has to be a misunderstanding.” “We pulled the security footage. The only unvetted person to enter the master wing of the estate last night was Gemma,” the officer stated firmly, his eyes locking onto mine. “Listen to me, Gemma. That necklace is worth eight figures. If you took it, I highly suggest you hand it over now before this gets federally escalated.” A hot spike of fury shot through me, instantly aggravating my stomach. I doubled over slightly, gasping. “You have zero evidence! How can you just decide I took it?” “You were the only anomaly on the premises. Step aside, folks. She needs to come with us.” My father immediately raised his hands, playing the peacemaker. “Look, it’s just a piece of jewelry. It’s fine. We’ll pay for it.” “Exactly. How much could one necklace be?” my mother chimed in nervously. I froze. It wasn’t about whether they could afford it. They were saying they believed I did it. They were offering to pay the restitution for my crime. But I was just a courier last night. How the hell would I even get near a diamond necklace? The officer looked at my parents like they were insane. “This isn’t a broken window, sir. We don’t just ‘pay for it.’ It’s a felony. And frankly, it’s a fifteen-million-dollar pink diamond. I don’t think you’re writing a check for that.” Fifteen million. Pink diamond. Those words hit my parents like a freight train. The color completely drained from their faces. My mother spun around, her voice shrill and trembling with real panic now. “Where exactly did you go last night?” Her question was loaded with accusation, but also a frantic guilt. I stared at her, letting the silence stretch before I delivered the blow. “I went to a massive estate in Greenwich. I ran an errand for the little princess who lives there. Dropped off her pastries.” “You… you went to the estate?” My mother’s voice cracked. She slapped a hand over her mouth, realizing she had completely broken character. My father stared at me, his eyes dark and calculating. “Gemma. Tell me the truth. What did you see?” “I saw everything you didn’t want me to see.” The words hung in the air. My parents turned to stone. For a long, suffocating minute, neither of them moved. Finally, my father cleared his throat. The blue-collar accent was gone, replaced by the smooth, authoritative cadence of a CEO. “Gemma… regarding our situation. We didn’t intend to deceive you. You have to understand—” I didn’t answer. My silence was my verdict. The cops, utterly lost in this bizarre family drama, impatiently ushered us out. With no other choice, the three of us climbed into the back of the cruiser and rode to the precinct. When we walked into the station, the girl from last night was already sitting in the lobby. Margot. Her eyes were red and puffy. Against her porcelain skin, the tears made her look like a fragile, tragic Renaissance painting. The moment my parents saw her, they rushed over, completely ignoring me. “Margot, darling, what happened? Why are you crying? Look at your eyes,” my mother cooed, brushing the girl’s hair back. I caught my reflection in the precinct mirror. I hadn’t slept. I was dying of cancer. My eyes were swollen shut from crying all night. I looked like a corpse. I let out a dark, breathless laugh. Even the arresting officer looked deeply confused. These were my parents. Why were they fawning over the victim, looking like a pair of destitute mechanics comforting a billionaire’s daughter? Margot looked up, her voice a delicate, trembling whisper. “Mom… Dad… you’re here.” The cops in the bullpen literally stopped typing. Several heads whipped around. They looked at me in handcuffs, then at the girl in head-to-toe Chanel, and then at my parents in their faded Walmart clothes. The math wasn’t mathing. My parents realized the jig was fully up. My father turned to the desk sergeant, standing tall. “I apologize for the confusion, officers. I am Richard Montgomery. This is my wife, Caroline. Both Gemma and Margot are our daughters. This entire situation is just a terrible misunderstanding.” “It’s not a misunderstanding, Dad! That was the birthday present you bought specifically for me!” Margot stamped her foot, pouting with perfect, calculated petulance. “I know Gemma has had a hard life on the streets or whatever, but that necklace means everything to me! You can’t just take her side because you feel guilty!” In three sentences, she painted herself as the neglected daughter just begging for her parents’ love, while framing me as the jealous, thieving street-rat sister. I watched a flicker of profound heartbreak cross my parents’ faces. My mother squeezed Margot’s hand. “Oh, sweetie, shh. It’s okay. She’s your sister. Mom and Dad will just buy you another one, alright?” They didn’t even ask for an investigation. They just accepted, as absolute fact, that I was a thief. The sheer, suffocating arrogance of it all made my skin crawl. The anger finally boiled over. “I said,” I ground out, my voice echoing off the concrete walls, “I didn’t touch the damn necklace!” My outburst startled them. My father massaged his temples, looking at me like I was a PR crisis he didn’t have time for. “Gemma, if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417781”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Tonight’s charity gala was supposed to be about the kids. I had brought the Aurelia—a centuries-old, museum-grade cello passed down through my mentor’s lineage—specifically to perform and raise funds for underprivileged arts programs. I never expected a girl in a tulle designer gown to hijack the stage, loudly declaring that my “dated” acoustic instrument was nothing compared to her shiny grand piano. But what truly shattered my heart wasn’t her arrogance. It was the fact that my boyfriend of three years stood by her side. He watched, arms crossed, as she shoved the Aurelia to the floor, splintering the wood, and then he had security drag me out of the ballroom. They probably thought they were just putting a nobody in her place. What they couldn’t possibly fathom was that the instrument they had just destroyed was appraised by Sotheby’s at fifty million dollars. … 1 I only brought the Aurelia down from the Catskills because Sean, my boyfriend, was hosting this charity gala. Before I left the mountain cabin, my mentor, Maestro Thomas, had run his weathered hand along the cello’s varnished curves. He’d sighed, his breath catching in the quiet room. “Letting those folks hear a voice that has survived three hundred years… I suppose that’s a blessing they ought to be grateful for, Brooks.” But the moment my bow touched the strings under the harsh stage lights, a shrill laugh cut through the ballroom. “Where did they dig up this rustic nobody? What is that noise? It’s giving me a migraine.” I ignored it. I closed my eyes and let the music swell, breathing into the mahogany. But the girl who had spoken wasn’t content to just heckle. She slipped past the velvet ropes and marched right up onto the stage. Before I could register her proximity, she lunged. With a vicious, careless swipe of her arm, she shoved the Aurelia right off its custom resting stand. I screamed. I didn’t even think to push her back. I dropped to my knees, diving for the cello, pulling its heavy, ancient body into my arms like a wounded child. The Aurelia was crafted in 1701 by a master luthier in Cremona. It had survived the rise and fall of empires, surviving wars and revolutions. It was an irreplaceable ghost of musical history. Had it not been for the promise of raising money for children who couldn’t afford music lessons, I never would have exposed a fifty-million-dollar masterpiece to a room full of strangers. My hands shook as I ran my fingertips over the bridge and the ribs. Finding no catastrophic structural collapse, the suffocating grip on my lungs loosened just a fraction. I scrambled up, my blood running hot, and glared at the girl in the tulle dress. “I was in the middle of a performance! Why would you touch my instrument?” The girl rolled her eyes, completely unfazed. “I told you it was giving me a headache. You didn’t stop. You brought this on yourself.” She looked me up and down, her lip curling in disgust. “You acoustic purists are so pathetic. Go play on a subway platform for loose change. What are you even doing at a high-end charity gala?” Her entitlement was so staggering it briefly knocked the wind out of me. “I’m here to raise money for a cause. Who the hell do you think you are to touch my property?” A smug, razor-thin smile spread across her face. “You might want to sit down before you hear this. I’m Caroline. Caroline Montgomery.” The moment the name left her lips, a hushed murmur swept through the ballroom. “Wait, the piano prodigy? No wonder she’s so intense. Genius comes with a temper.” “I can’t believe Caroline Montgomery is actually here. We’re so lucky.” Hearing the whispers, the pieces clicked into place. Caroline Montgomery. The darling of the classical-pop crossover world. She’d been doing sold-out arena tours since she was eighteen. Even up in the secluded quiet of the Catskills, Maestro Thomas and I had heard of her. But being famous didn’t give her the right to assault a piece of history. I stared down the arrogant prodigy, my voice dropping to an icy register. “Apologize.” Caroline’s eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief before she burst into genuine, ringing laughter. “You? A little country mouse clutching a piece of firewood, ruining my scheduled stage time, and you want me to apologize?” She scoffed. “You’re lucky I don’t sue you. That heavy piece of junk scraped my wrist when I pushed it. It actually hurts.” That was when Sean finally moved. My boyfriend, who had been watching from the front row, rushed up the stage stairs. But he didn’t come to me. He went straight to Caroline, gently taking her hand and inspecting her wrist with frantic concern. Once he was satisfied she was uninjured, he turned to me. His face was a mask of cold annoyance. “Brooks, apologize to Caroline immediately.” The words felt like a physical blow. I stared at him, the ringing in my ears drowning out the crowd. “Are you out of your mind, Sean? She nearly destroyed the Aurelia! It’s worth fifty million dollars!” Caroline yanked her hand away from Sean, pointing at me as she dissolved into breathless laughter. “Look at your thrift-store dress! Fifty million? Are you clinically insane?” 2 “That piece of rotting wood isn’t worth fifty bucks at a pawn shop.” I had spent the last decade up in the mountains, learning patience and grace from Maestro Thomas, but in this moment, a feral, white-hot rage snapped my restraint. “Keep your mouth shut if you don’t know what you’re looking at. Every word you speak just advertises your own profound ignorance.” The insult landed. Caroline’s face flushed an ugly, mottled red. With a sudden, violent shriek, she shoved me hard in the chest. I stumbled backward in my heels, losing my balance. Before I could catch myself, she ripped the Aurelia from my loosened grip. She hoisted the centuries-old cello into the air. And then, with the full force of her body, she slammed it down onto the hardwood stage. CRACK. My vision went black at the edges. The sound of the wood splintering tore through the room—a visceral, agonizing crack that felt like a rib snapping inside my own chest. I couldn’t breathe. The Aurelia wasn’t just wood and string. It was the culmination of a master’s entire life. Its voice had been heard by kings, by grieving widows, by legends of the Renaissance. It was a tangible thread connecting the modern world to the history of human emotion. Back in the cabin, I barely used pressure when I dusted it. And now, it lay brutally fractured on a cheap event stage. I fell to my knees beside it. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. I felt like I was going to violently throw up. This was an artifact that belonged in the Smithsonian, and it had been butchered on my watch. Tears of pure, blinding fury spilled over my cheeks. I lunged at Caroline, ready to tear her apart with my bare hands. But Sean caught me mid-air. His grip on my arms was bruising, his voice dripping with a harsh, unfamiliar authority. “Stop making a scene, Brooks! You’ve already ruined Caroline’s evening, and now you want to assault her?” I was trembling so violently my teeth chattered. I pointed a shaking finger at Caroline. “She smashed my instrument! That cello is a three-hundred-year-old masterpiece!” Caroline was literally holding her stomach, laughing so hard she had to lean against the grand piano. “God, you are so pathetic. If you’re going to run a scam, at least dress the part. Do you really think anyone believes a girl in off-the-rack linen owns a masterpiece?” She snapped her fingers. A man who looked like an assistant scurried up the stage steps. Caroline took a stack of hundred-dollar bills from him and hurled them directly at my face. “You want a payout? Fine. Here’s your charity, you absolute beggar. God, you’re ruining my vibe.” The crisp edges of the bills stung my cheek, leaving a faint red scratch as they fluttered to the floor. But I couldn’t feel the sting. My entire soul was anchored to the broken wood on the floor. Sean was still pinning my arms, terrified I would attack his new VIP. I went dead weight for a second, then stomped the heel of my shoe directly onto his instep with all the strength I had left. He yelped and dropped me. I threw myself over the Aurelia, shielding it with my body. The cello had survived the fall of the French monarchy, yet here, the rich mahogany varnish was gouged. And worse—the bespoke, ruby-inlaid tailpiece, a historically documented modification from the 1800s, had snapped off entirely. I choked back a sob and crawled along the stage floor, desperately scanning the floorboards. Thank God. The ruby piece had just rolled near the edge of the curtain. I reached my hand out to grab it, my fingers just brushing the cold stone. Crunch. A stiletto heel drove directly into the back of my hand, pinning it to the floor. “Brooks, was it?” Caroline’s voice drifted down from above me, dripping with venom. “Look at you. Crawling around on the floor for a broken piece of junk. Have you no dignity?” She leaned her weight into the heel. “Apologize to me for ruining my night, and I might just forgive you.” I slowly lifted my head, meeting Caroline’s smug, triumphant eyes. She looked at me like I was an insect. She truly, deeply believed that my Aurelia was just a cheap prop. I took three long, shuddering breaths. I had to cage the absolute desire to kill her. I pulled my bleeding hand from under her shoe and stood up to face her. “You destroyed an artifact worth fifty million dollars. I haven’t even begun to demand reparations, yet you have the audacity to stand there and torture me?” Caroline rolled her eyes, inspecting her manicure. “Listen to me, you nobody. I am Caroline Montgomery. My grand piano is a custom Steinway, worth maybe a quarter of a million.” 3 “You drag in a hollowed-out log and claim it’s worth fifty million? Do I look stupid to you?” I couldn’t hold back anymore. My fist clenched, but before I could swing, Sean wedged himself between us, his chest puffed out defensively. He looked down at me, and I realized I was staring at a total stranger. “Brooks, Caroline is entirely out of your league. You don’t mess with people like her. We’re done. I’m breaking up with you.” Caroline peeked out from behind Sean’s shoulder, her eyes sparkling with malicious glee. “Did you catch that? Now get out. A little backwoods freak like you never deserved a guy like Sean anyway.” I didn’t care about the breakup. I didn’t care about their twisted little alliance. I just wanted my ruby tailpiece so I could get the Aurelia out of this snake pit. But Caroline, seeing that I wasn’t weeping over Sean, grew irritated again. She stepped forward and casually kicked the ruby piece completely off the stage. “Stop acting like a martyr and get the hell out of my sight!” I didn’t hesitate. I carefully gathered the Aurelia into my arms, jumped down from the stage, and began scouring the dimly lit floor where the ruby had vanished. As I crawled through the shadows, the vicious murmurs of the audience washed over me. “Is she mentally ill? The nerve, trying to upstage Caroline Montgomery.” “Seriously. She needs to be institutionalized. Coming to a high society event to pull a stunt like this.” “Did you see how Sean handled it, though? Total alpha move, protecting Caroline like that.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. Just find the ruby. Find it, get back to the Maestro, and face the consequences. But Caroline’s voice rang through the sound system. “Security! Why is this lunatic still in the building? Throw her out!” Two massive guards grabbed me by the shoulders. I panicked, my grip tightening on the cello as they began to drag me backward. I looked at Sean, abandoning my pride. “Sean, fine! Break up with me, throw me out, I don’t care! Just let me find the piece that broke off! Tell them to let me go for two minutes!” Sean wouldn’t even meet my eyes. He sighed, adjusting his expensive lapels. “Brooks, I know you live in a fantasy world most of the time, but can you please stop embarrassing yourself in public?” He gestured to the guards. “Get her out before she causes any permanent damage to the event.” Moments later, I was standing on the cold concrete sidewalk outside the venue, clutching the Aurelia to my chest. The night air was freezing. I stood there in the dark for a long time. Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. When you report the destruction of a documented, historic relic worth tens of millions of dollars, the NYPD takes it very seriously. The Art Crimes squad was dispatched, and cruisers pulled up within minutes. When I walked back into the ballroom, flanked by uniformed officers, Caroline was halfway through her set. She was wearing a tiara, eyes closed, swaying dramatically over the keys. The police didn’t care if she was a prodigy. They marched right up and cut the sound system. Caroline’s eyes flew open, a curse slipping past her lips. When she saw me standing behind the officers, she jumped up, her face twisting in outrage. “Are you psychotic, Brooks?! I gave you cash! Why the hell did you call the cops?” Sean stormed over, his face flushed with anger. “Brooks. I know getting dumped was a shock.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound reasonable. “But filing a false police report is a felony. Apologize to the officers right now, and I’ll pay your bail. Otherwise…” I looked at Sean’s perfectly styled hair and his patronizing frown. I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You really should be worrying about yourself, Sean.” I stepped past him. “If the missing piece of the Aurelia is not recovered tonight, every single one of you involved is going to spend the best years of your lives in federal prison.” My voice was utterly deadpan. The chilling certainty in my tone sent a ripple of unease through the VIP tables. “She doesn’t look like she’s lying… The cops actually shut it down. What if that thing really is an antique? You can go to jail for destroying museum property.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “417780”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the fifth year of pursuing Alexander, I received an anonymous video. In a private room at some high-end club, Alexander had his arm around a woman, listening lazily to the chatter around him. “Chloe skipped the party again. Is she working herself to death for Alex at the company?” “Alex, Chloe’s been chasing you for years. Don’t you like her even a little?” He swirled his drink and let out a derisive laugh. “Like her? She’s just an obedient dog I keep around.” In that moment, it felt like someone had dumped ice water over my head. So cold. But also sobering. I pulled out my phone and messaged the blind date my family had arranged. After all, the best way to forget one relationship is to start another. I didn’t know yet that the man I was about to meet was a legendary Alpha werewolf. And that he’d been in love with me for a very long time. He replied quickly to my request to meet, gentleman that he was, saying I could choose the time and he’d arrange the place. The problem was, when my parents mentioned this blind date, I hadn’t listened to a single word. Now I knew absolutely nothing about this date of mine. I arrived early at the reserved restaurant, hesitating at the entrance. What if I didn’t recognize him? Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? I was pacing nervously when I suddenly tripped. I cried out, pitching forward. My clutch went flying from my hand. Great! My first official date was going to start with me flat on my face? But the expected pain never came. An arm wrapped around my waist with incredible strength, while another hand caught my clutch smoothly. The momentum spun me half around until my back pressed against a solid, warm chest. I was completely steady. It all happened in an instant. Still in shock, I looked up into a pair of exquisite features, impossibly close. And I recognized this face. William Carter. The most mysterious and intimidating figure in high society business circles. I’d seen his name countless times on Alexander’s target partner lists, but supposedly he was known for ruthless methods and coldness. Extremely difficult to approach. We’d never succeeded in partnering with him even once. My mind went blank. I even forgot I was still in his arms. How had he gotten here? When I was falling, I’d glimpsed the entrance—no one else was there. How had he appeared from nowhere and caught me so precisely, so quickly, even snagging my airborne clutch? His speed was almost… inhuman. “Careful,” his low, gentle voice sounded above my head. He steadied me upright, then released his hold on my waist like a gentleman, returning my clutch. His fingertips brushed my palm inadvertently. “Th-thank you…” I took the clutch, my cheeks burning. All those questions about his “impossible speed” had vanished from my mind. “You’re welcome.” He smiled slightly, asking softly, “Are you Miss Summers?” I looked up in surprise. How did he know my last name? His smile deepened. “Is it possible that I’m the one you’re waiting for?” I was stunned. My family only said they’d arranged a great blind date. But I never dared imagine it would be someone at William Carter’s level. Now sitting across from William in his private dining room, I kept smiling on the surface while texting my mother under the table. [You arranged a date with William Carter for me?] [Our family background is good enough to match with his family now?] [Did you guys make a fortune on some investment?] Mom replied quickly. [What are you talking about, honey? Having fever dreams in broad daylight?] [We arranged for you to meet one of William Carter’s nephews.] [Didn’t Aunt Susan explain this to you?] I glanced at the smiling man across from me. Could there possibly be another face like this in the world? Meeting his gaze, I couldn’t keep pretending to be busy. I stammered, “Um… may I ask if you’re… William Carter?” He nodded, then smiled apologetically. “Yes. My fault—I haven’t introduced myself properly.” “Hello, Summers. I’m William Carter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” When he spoke, his gaze was deep and focused, as if he wasn’t looking at someone he was formally meeting for the first time. But in a blink, he returned to that gentle, courteous demeanor. And the information he was giving me… completely contradicted what my mother told me. I was confused. “But the blind date they arranged for me… wasn’t supposed to be…” William raised an eyebrow and picked up his coffee, taking a light sip. “That little pup… I mean, that kid isn’t good enough for you. So I came instead.” “What’s wrong?” His voice held a hint of tension. “Would you have preferred him?” I froze. Why was he talking like… like we were already close?

I was puzzled, but William remained completely composed, staring at me unblinkingly, clearly expecting an answer. I could only force myself to speak. “Of course not… I don’t even know him.” He chuckled. “Then me substituting for him—that’s okay, right?” I swallowed. “I… guess…” Of course it was okay with me. William seemed very happy with my answer. He pulled out thick documents from somewhere, stood, and leaned over to place them in front of me. “Good. This contains my assets and background information. I believe this file demonstrates my sincerity.” He paused, looking at me with focused intensity, his voice low and magnetic. “I hope you’ll consider me.” Up close, his voice became even more appealing, making my head spin a little. Was this some fantasy I was having after Alexander drove me crazy? Under the table, I pinched my thigh hard. Ow! That hurt. Not a dream. Perhaps my expression was growing increasingly blank, because William smiled and retreated to his seat. I snapped back to attention, realizing I’d lost my composure again. I quickly grabbed my glass and took a sip of water to hide my embarrassment, then forced myself to speak calmly. “Mr. Carter. Do you mean… you want to marry me?” The air seemed to freeze for a moment. Something almost scorching flashed in his eyes, but was quickly suppressed, leaving only pure earnestness. “Yes. Miss Summers, I hope to have the honor of becoming your husband.” His attitude was clear and resolute. I truly didn’t know what to do. Who proposes marriage on the first meeting? And the person was William Carter… a man I’d always thought completely out of reach. “But… why me?” He seemed to have anticipated this question. He leaned back casually, tilting his head. “A woman as outstanding as you in ability, personality, and looks—does wanting to marry you need a reason?” He even raised an eyebrow at me with a smile. His tone and demeanor were so serious that I felt embarrassed instead. I touched my nose. “But aren’t your qualifications even better?” William paused for two seconds, looking directly into my eyes. “Then do you think I’m good?” I froze, silently looking at the table full of dishes that perfectly matched my tastes. I’d contacted him so late yesterday, yet he’d still managed to research my preferences this thoroughly. At least as a date, he was extremely sincere. His manner was nothing like the cold, ruthless reputation he had. Add his excellent personal qualities and family background… who wouldn’t think he was good? I hesitated a moment. “You’re… pretty great.” William brightened noticeably, lowering his head to chuckle quietly, pushing the documents closer to me. “Then will you try this with me?” Realizing he meant marriage, my instinct was to retreat. After all, this wasn’t anywhere in my life plans right now. But William’s emotions seemed so genuine that I wanted to be honest too. “We can try getting to know each other. But marriage… isn’t that a bit too fast?” At my answer, darkness flashed through his eyes, quickly concealed. “Alright. Whatever you say.”

After dinner, William had his driver take me home. On the way, I overheard his assistant talking to him and learned that at the time I’d asked him to dinner, he’d originally had an important international video conference. I felt terrible. “Did I make you miss your meeting? I’m sorry, I didn’t know…” Seeing my dejection, William bent down, bringing his face very close to mine. His scent enveloped me instantly. He spoke quietly, his breath almost brushing my cheek. “How could a meeting be more important than you? After all, you asking me out isn’t something that happens every day.” His face was so close I could see his long, thick lashes clearly. And those beautiful eyes were filled entirely with my reflection. In that moment, I could even hear my heartbeat accelerating. “William…” Perhaps seeing my discomfort, he slowly pulled back. “I should go take care of things.” The goodbye was hurried. And when he turned to walk away on those long legs, his steps seemed a bit… uncoordinated. I watched his retreating figure and slowly rolled up the car window. I felt inexplicably happy. Like maybe… I actually really enjoyed being with William. That evening, William finally finished work and sent me a message. A photo of the bright moon hanging high—clearly just taken. I quickly replied: [So beautiful.] He replied even faster. [Yes. Seeing it made me think of you.] Think of me? I felt oddly shy. [Are you always this good at flirting?] But he seemed completely sincere. [I just said what I thought. Does that count as flirting?] This man… how could he always say things that made my heart race while being so matter-of-fact? I was wondering how to reply when a new message popped up: [Are you free for dinner tomorrow?] I barely hesitated. [Yes!] In the following days, William’s pursuit was passionate and direct. We saw each other almost daily. He constantly sent me carefully selected expensive gifts. I truly experienced what it felt like to be buried in luxury presents. But constantly accepting his generosity made me uncomfortable, so before dinner one day, I went early to a nearby high-end department store to pick out a gift for William. After searching for ages, I couldn’t find anything William would actually need. Finally, in the men’s accessories section, I spotted a platinum tie clip with simple design but excellent quality. Just as I was paying and having it wrapped, a derisive laugh came from behind me. “Chloe, finally done with your tantrum?” My movements instantly stiffened. I knew that voice very well. It was Alexander’s.

I turned around. Alexander and several of his friends had appeared at the store entrance, looking at me with leisurely arrogance. I didn’t give him a second glance, turning back to wait for the clerk to finish wrapping. But those people had to come closer. “Assistant Chloe’s shopping? Isn’t that a men’s tie clip? Picking it out for Alex?” “This simple style would definitely suit Alex. Assistant Chloe is so thoughtful!” “Though after all this fuss, Alex is genuinely a bit angry. A little gift might not be enough to appease him…” Amid all the chatter, Alexander snorted. “Who needs some trinket! But if you apologize properly, I can give you that opportunity.” His voice made me sick. I simply didn’t look at him. “I already resigned. My name is Chloe, not Assistant Chloe. And this isn’t for Alexander. Can you stop making assumptions?” After I spoke, the smirking faces slowly turned serious. Alexander’s expression darkened too. He stared at me for a long moment. “Still not done playing games? That’s enough, Chloe. I don’t have unlimited patience.” Then he glanced mockingly at the velvet jewelry box the clerk had just wrapped. “A men’s tie clip. Who else could you be giving it to?” I paid and accepted the item. “My date. Is that okay?” Alexander narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you say you weren’t going on dates?” I picked up the gift and headed out. “I changed my mind.” His voice turned cold instantly. “Who?” I paused, choosing to tell the truth. “William Carter.” At this name familiar to everyone in their circle, they all fell silent. After a moment, quiet laughter resumed. Alexander’s heavy voice came from behind. “Chloe. Finding a fake boyfriend to make me jealous is stupid. And if you’re going to make someone up, at least make it believable.” I didn’t care whether they believed me or not. Without looking back, I left directly. Because of this incident, I was slightly late for dinner. When I arrived, William was folding a napkin into a flower. Seeing me enter, he adjusted the shape with his hands and presented a napkin rose before me. “Like it?” I paused. “It’s beautiful! So intricate. You’re talented! Sorry, something came up and I’m late. Have you been waiting long?” Hearing my apology, William set down the napkin rose. “It’s fine.” After two or three seconds, he couldn’t help adding, “My assistant told me you ran into… a friend earlier?” I froze. After openly chasing Alexander so obsessively for so long, William didn’t even need to investigate to know how crazy I’d been about Alexander. But during this time, neither of us had brought up that topic. Mentioning it now, he must… mind, right? I quickly distanced myself. “That person and I aren’t friends at all.” William looked at me, his voice still tentative. “A former friend, then?” I thought about it. “Not even that. More like a dark chapter in my past.” The intense emotions in William’s eyes dissipated, returning to the familiar warmth I knew. Seeing him smile, I took the opportunity to push the velvet box toward him. “I was only late because I was picking out a gift for you. Does it suit you?” William’s eyes suddenly blazed with astonishing light. “For me?” I nodded. His face filled with unmistakable delight as he gently accepted the small box. Opening it, he removed the platinum tie clip and examined it carefully between his fingers, starlight dancing in his eyes. “Thank you, Chloe. I love it.” Realizing something seemed off, he looked up at me, asking cautiously, “May I call you that?” I blinked. “Of course you can!”

William seemed very happy, looking at me with burning intensity, his voice lower and huskier than before. “Would you help me put it on?” I nodded. As I approached and my fingers inadvertently touched his shirt front and tie, I could feel his muscles tense instantly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. But he quickly relaxed, simply looking down at me deeply. I carefully clipped the tie clip onto his tie, adjusting the position. The platinum gleamed coldly, complementing his composed attire perfectly. “Done.” I looked up. He glanced down at it, then lifted his face proudly, unable to suppress his smile. “Perfect. Now when people notice it and ask why I changed accessories, I can tell them it’s a gift from you—and that you put it on me yourself.” Lost in his imagination, he grew more and more proud. That expression was exactly like a large dog that had received an exclusive treasure and was satisfied to the point of wanting to show it off, every pore radiating joy. It was truly overwhelming. But… though we’d been close these past days, we still hadn’t defined our relationship. I hesitated. “But if you announce it like that, won’t people misunderstand?” William’s imaginative expression froze. The amusement in his eyes quickly faded, replaced by indescribable heat. “Misunderstand?” he repeated in a low voice, even huskier than before. Then he suddenly wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me into his embrace. The distance between us vanished instantly as his scent completely enveloped me. “Chloe,” he lowered his head, gaze falling on my lips, eyes churning with visible desire, “I very much hope people will misunderstand… or better yet, that it won’t be a misunderstanding, but the truth.” Before finishing, his head lowered, targeting my lips with clear intent. “William!” I cried out, reaching up to push him away. But he caught my hand. He kissed me, then slowly moved his lips to my earlobe, then my neck. He unbuttoned my shirt, exposing large expanses of skin. I felt something cool and wet. He was gently biting my neck with his teeth, like some beast holding its prey. An instinctive fear engulfed me. I struggled hard, tears falling uncontrollably. His movements stopped abruptly. I could see the churning desire in his eyes instantly replaced by shock and a trace of guilt, though his arms still held me loosely, not releasing immediately. He looked at me, voice hoarse as he pressed, “I’m sorry, but please—tell me what you’re thinking.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “383573”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

After my foster younger sister Vivian passed her university entrance exams, our whole family gathered for a celebration dinner. My mother said gratefully to my husband Ethan: “Thank you for helping Vivian get into such a good university.” Ethan smiled: “It was my pleasure.” After dinner ended, Ethan suddenly spoke in the car: “Do you know why I agreed to help Vivian? On her eighteenth birthday, she came to me herself and said that as long as I helped her, she’d be willing to repay me with her body.” My mind went blank. He exhaled a puff of smoke, as if savoring a memory: “Vivian is very obedient in bed. She sounds different from you.” 1 My heart seized. I raised my hand sharply and slapped him across the face. “Ethan, you’re scum!” My voice trembled, tears welling in my eyes. “She’s my sister! How could you do this?” The smile on his face faded slightly, but he didn’t get angry. “Back then, I could still touch you after those thugs had their hands on you. Isn’t she cleaner than you?” “Besides, after your dad died, who’s been paying for everything to keep this family afloat? Don’t I deserve a little compensation?” I stared at him in disbelief. “What did you just say?” In that moment, the blood in my veins seemed to freeze. Eight years ago, I was assaulted. My father, trying to get justice for me, killed the perpetrators’ entire family in a moment of rage. Back then, Ethan was a newly practicing lawyer. Despite all the pressure, he found evidence, questioned inconsistencies, and managed to clear my father of murder charges, allowing him a dignified burial. He was the one person who knew the full truth of what happened, who understood how deeply I’d been hurt… Ethan’s expression remained unchanged as he reached into the back seat, grabbed a plastic bag, and tossed it onto my lap. Inside was a pair of light-colored cotton underwear stained with dark red blood — so glaring I could barely look at it. Ethan’s voice held no warmth: “That day she’d just turned eighteen. It was her first time too. When she went home, she was in so much pain she could barely stand straight. You thought she was having period cramps and even made her hot milk. Remember to wash these clean before returning them to her.” Tears finally spilled down my cheeks. Through gritted teeth, I said word by word: “Ethan, I want a divorce.” He laughed as if he’d heard a joke, then reached out to grip my chin. “Divorce? So the baby in your belly can become a fatherless bastard like you?” My whole body shook. I instinctively touched my stomach. Overwhelmed by emotion, I’d forgotten — I was pregnant. Six weeks… Ethan released me, his tone returning to its usual casual indifference. “If there’s nothing else, go upstairs. Wash up and get some sleep. You have a prenatal checkup tomorrow.” I pushed open the car door and practically fled into the building. In the elevator, I stared at those bloodstained underwear for a long time, nausea churning in my stomach. When I opened the door, Vivian was sitting on the living room sofa. She wore the white dress I’d bought her last year, clutching her phone, her eyes red and swollen. Apparently, Ethan had told her. When she saw the plastic bag in my hand, tears streamed down her face. The next second, she dropped to her knees before me. “I’m sorry, Mia. I was confused…” She collapsed on the floor, shoulders shaking, crying her heart out. I stood frozen, my heart feeling like it was being sliced with knives. “Vivian, haven’t I been good to you?” My voice cracked with tears. “When you were being bullied at the orphanage, I brought you home, bought you new clothes, paid for your education. Why would you steal my husband? Why would you destroy my family?” 2 Vivian finally looked up, her face streaked with tears. “Mia, I know Ethan is your husband. I know this was wrong. But Ethan helped me so much, and I had nothing to repay him with. He said he just wanted to experience something pure once. I was already an adult then, and in a moment of weakness I…” I seemed to have gone numb to the pain in my heart. I simply threw the underwear on the floor. “Pack your things and get out of my house. I never want to see you again.” Vivian froze, murmured an apology, then suddenly rushed to the side. A dull thud — her abdomen slammed hard into the solid wood coffee table. After a piercing scream, Vivian collapsed on the floor clutching her stomach, breaking out in cold sweat. Dark red blood gradually seeped through the hem of her dress. “Vivian!” Terrified, I rushed over to help her. “Mia, I’m sorry. This baby… it’s Ethan’s. It shouldn’t exist…” She spoke weakly, tears still falling. Behind me came the sound of breaking glass. I turned in shock to see my mother’s face, pale with horror. My heart sank — my mother had a heart condition. She couldn’t handle shocks like this. But she’d heard everything… The next second, my mother clutched her chest, her breathing growing more labored. Before I could say anything, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed. “Mom!” I screamed, rushing to her. In the chaos, I dialed 91

The ambulance sirens wailed as they took Vivian and my mother to the hospital. Sitting in the emergency vehicle, I felt like I was falling into a bottomless abyss. At the hospital, after emergency treatment, the doctor informed me that my mother had suffered an acute myocardial infarction and needed to be hospitalized for observation. Vivian had a threatened miscarriage and needed bed rest. I’d barely caught my breath when Ethan rushed in. He didn’t even glance at me, heading straight to Vivian’s bedside. “Vivian, how are you? Are you okay?” Vivian opened her eyes. Seeing him, tears fell again. “Ethan, I’m fine. Don’t blame Mia. This is all my fault.” Ethan turned to look at me, his eyes frighteningly cold. “This has nothing to do with her. If anyone’s to blame, it’s certain people for being so petty.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Ethan, can you be reasonable? She ran into the coffee table herself. It has nothing to do with me.” He laughed coldly. “If you hadn’t come home and mocked her, would she be like this? Mia, I never thought you were such a vicious woman. You can’t even tolerate your own sister.” “I didn’t!” I protested loudly, but my voice sounded so weak and powerless. Nurses and patients around us turned to look curiously. Those stares pierced me like needles, making me wish I could disappear. Ethan stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. “I don’t care whether you did or not. Right now, you need to apologize.” I struggled to shake off his hand. “Why should I apologize?” This was absurd — he was the one sleeping with Vivian behind my back. Yet I was supposed to apologize to Vivian because their child got hurt. Vivian’s tears fell again as she begged us to stop. Seeing Ethan and I continue to argue, she suddenly grabbed a fruit knife from the table and slashed it toward her wrist without hesitation. 3 “Vivian!” Ethan and I both cried out at once. Blood immediately seeped from her wrist, staining the white sheets red. A nurse rushed over, quickly taking the knife from her hand and administering first aid. “Stop forcing Mia, Ethan,” Vivian said weakly. The fury in Ethan’s eyes intensified. “Mia, are you satisfied now?” Watching this scene unfold, I felt dizzy and disoriented. Swallowing my humiliation, I pulled out my phone to contact the divorce lawyer I’d just hired. But the moment I unlocked the screen, Ethan snatched it from me. He glanced at the screen and laughed coldly. “Mia, you think you’re still in a position to talk about divorce?” He grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the far end of the hospital corridor. “That old house your father left behind, plus the company shares — transfer them to Vivian’s name immediately.” I froze, staring at him in disbelief. “Ethan, those are the assets my father left me. They have nothing to do with you or Vivian.” “Why should I?” He scoffed, pulling out his phone and opening a video. He held it in front of my face. “Because of this.” The video was blurry, the lighting dim, but my face was clearly recognizable. In the footage, my clothes were disheveled, my face filled with terror and despair. This was from the assault eight years ago. Suffocating dread washed over me instantly. I never imagined he’d been keeping something like this all along. He toyed with the phone, his tone casual. “Back then, I could find the key evidence to get your father acquitted. Now I can anonymously upload this video online.” “Then I’ll get some people to add their own spin — saying you were willing, that you even seduced them. What do you think people will say about you then?” I felt frozen to my core, tears streaming uncontrollably. He continued pressing. “Mia, just be good and hand over the inheritance as compensation for Vivian. Then we’ll pretend none of this ever happened. I can have Vivian give you the baby after she gives birth, and she’ll go back to college.” He paused, mockery filling his eyes. “Otherwise, you know what happens.” I looked at him, my vision blurred with tears. “Ethan, if you hate me this much, why did you marry me in the first place?” He smiled slightly, reaching out to gently caress my cheek. “I don’t hate you, Mia. But you know, what happened back then — any man would care about that. There’s always been a thorn in my heart.” His fingertips lightly traced my jawline, his tone coaxing. “Once this baby is born, we’ll go back to how things were. I’ll never have any contact with Vivian again. We’ll have a good life together, okay?” “I’m giving you three days to think about it.” Looking at this familiar face, all I felt was endless disgust and despair. 4 After leaving the corridor, I returned to the hospital room. My mother was still unconscious. Vivian lay in bed with her eyes closed, her face still pale. Ethan sat by Vivian’s bedside, speaking softly to comfort her. I stood in the doorway, the last thread of hope in my heart finally severed completely. I knew that Ethan and I could never go back to what we were. But instead of making any decision, I went to the hospital for a routine checkup the next day. I didn’t tell anyone. Sitting outside the examination room, my emotions were in turmoil. This was my child. I’d been so excited about his arrival. But now everything had changed. Just as the nurse called my name, the door burst open. Ethan rushed in and yanked me up from the chair. His eyes were bloodshot as he dragged me outside. I struggled. “Ethan, let go of me! I want a divorce!” He ignored my struggles, dragging me all the way out of the hospital and shoving me into the car. “Mia, I warned you not to try leaving me. You didn’t listen, so now you’ll pay the price.” With that, he started the car and drove toward the hospital where my mother was staying. The moment he pushed open the hospital room door, I saw Vivian sitting by my mother’s bed, peeling an apple. Seeing us enter, Vivian froze, then gave a gentle smile. “Ethan, you’re back.” Ethan didn’t speak. He simply pulled Vivian to him and kissed her fiercely. Vivian’s eyes widened in shock, her face filled with surprise. Then she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly around Ethan’s neck. “Mmm…” My mother’s pupils dilated suddenly on the hospital bed. Her mouth twitched continuously, her face filled with shock and disbelief. Ethan kissed Vivian for a long time before releasing her. He turned to look at me. “Mia, you wanted to cut ties? I’ll let you cut them completely.” His gaze shifted to my mother on the bed, his voice clear and venomous. “Mom, let me tell you a secret. Vivian isn’t the child Mia brought back from the orphanage. She’s Mia’s father’s illegitimate daughter from an affair. The foster daughter you’ve been caring for all these years is actually proof of your husband’s betrayal.” “No… that’s impossible…” My mother trembled all over, her lips quivering as she spoke weakly. Vivian suddenly spoke up, her tone no longer weak or remorseful. “It’s true, Mom. Before my mother died, she told me about it and told me to find my father. He wouldn’t acknowledge me, so Mia kindly took me into the family and gave me a place to stay.” I stood frozen, my mind going completely blank. My mother opened her mouth to speak but could only let out a piercing scream. The next second, her body stiffened and she lost consciousness completely. “Mom!” I screamed and rushed to her. Doctors and nurses came running at the commotion and began emergency resuscitation. Over half an hour later, the doctor emerged from the emergency room. He shook his head, his tone heavy. “The patient suffered severe brain hemorrhaging from extreme stress. She’s now in a vegetative state.” I murmured to myself, wanting to cry but unable to shed a single tear… Looking at my mother lying lifeless on the hospital bed, thinking of the child growing inside me. In that moment, all my emotions collapsed. I numbly stood up and ran like a madwoman toward the fifth-floor window. Under everyone’s horrified gaze, I threw myself out and jumped. Ethan’s face went deathly pale. “Mia!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “383572”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I had been in a long-distance relationship with my boyfriend for three years. Every night, he’d video call me and stay on until I fell asleep. All my friends envied me for finding such a thoughtful boyfriend. Until I stumbled upon a post online. [Girls, have you ever tried this? Having sex with him while he’s on a video call with his long-distance girlfriend. The thrill is absolutely incredible~] The comments section was full of people cursing her out, but the blogger seemed proud rather than ashamed, continuing to post updates: [Just now his girlfriend rolled over on the video, scared him so much he almost came, but it made me even more excited!] [Every time he gets his girlfriend to fall asleep, he does it with me again. Right now he’s holding me, his “little wildcat”~] The attached photo showed a man in dim lighting, shirtless, his face unclear. When I saw the red mole on that man’s collarbone, my blood ran cold. It was identical to my boyfriend’s. My hands trembling, I enlarged the photo and discovered that on the man’s nightstand was a picture of me.

“Shiven, I had a nightmare.” I picked up my phone and sent a message to Shiven Smith. After hitting send, I stared at the “sleeping” man on my screen. No reaction. His breathing rate didn’t change even slightly. A minute later, the post’s author updated: [That stupid woman just texted saying she had a nightmare.] [LMAO, her boyfriend is plowing me right now, no time to care about her.] [But on the video, he’s definitely sleeping soundly.] [After all, it’s a looped recording.] I looked at the video again and noticed something off. Every fifteen minutes, the curtain in the lower left corner of the frame would blow up slightly. The arc and time interval were perfectly identical—this was a looped video. I rolled over, deliberately making a lot of noise, and coughed twice. The video remained quiet and still. Only that pre-recorded breathing sound echoed in the room. The blogger updated again: [She just rolled over so loudly, scared the hell out of me. Good thing the video didn’t give it away.] I clicked on the blogger’s profile. It was full of lovey-dovey posts spanning half a year. Six months ago, Shiven said he had to attend a closed training program. In reality, he’d taken her to a beach resort. In the photos, he wore swim trunks, back to the camera, with the blogger’s hand resting on his shoulder. Those swim trunks were ones I’d bought him. There was another photo where the blogger wore black lace lingerie, taking a mirror selfie. The caption read: [He gave it to me. Says he loves the sound of this fabric being torn.] That day was my birthday. He’d given me a set of pure cotton pajamas, saying he was worried I’d catch cold. I looked down at the cotton pajamas I was wearing and felt only mockery. So in his eyes, I only deserved to be wrapped in these prim and proper fabrics. I saved all the blogger’s posts, photos, and videos. Even though my hands were shaking badly, my phone gallery filled with hundreds of screenshots, each one piercing my heart. On the video, “Shiven Smith” continued sleeping peacefully, playing the role of the devoted boyfriend. I took a screenshot of the screen. The image showed his fake sleeping face, with a timestamp showing 3 AM in the corner. I kept my eyes open until dawn broke.

At exactly seven o’clock, the screen flickered and the lighting suddenly brightened. Shiven woke up. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and leaned close to the camera: “Good morning, baby. Did you sleep well? You said you had a nightmare?” His voice was raspy, his eyes drowsy—his acting was impeccable. I looked at his face and forced out a smile: “Yeah, I dreamed you left me and ran off with another woman.” Shiven’s expression froze for a moment, then he showed a doting smile: “Silly girl, dreams are the opposite of reality. How could I leave you? You’re my life.” The doorbell rang at that moment. I walked to the door with my phone. Through the peephole, I saw a package the delivery person had left on the ground. The sender’s field was blank, with only my name written as the recipient. I opened the delivery bag to find an exquisite pink gift box. Opening the lid, inside lay a set of black lace lingerie. The size was S, while I always wore M. A card fell to the ground. Written on it in delicate handwriting was a sentence: “Shiven says you dress too conservatively. He asked me to pick something nice for you. You’re welcome.” I picked up the card and held up the lingerie, shaking it in front of the video camera: “Shiven, is this a surprise you bought me? Why is the size wrong?” The moment Shiven saw the lingerie clearly, his eyes showed panic. But he quickly composed himself, frowning: “Huh? Why would I buy something so disgusting?” “The seller sent the wrong thing? Or maybe some bored person playing a prank.” “Throw it away. It’s filthy.” I tossed the lingerie back in the box and stared into his eyes: “The card says you think I dress too conservatively.” Shiven’s face darkened: “What are you trying to say? You doubt me?” “I work so hard every day, and at night I still stay on video to help you fall asleep.” “Don’t we have even basic trust between us?” “Can you be more mature? Stop being so paranoid all the time. It’s exhausting for me.” He turned it around on me. He was the one being dirty, yet he blamed me for being suspicious. Every time we’d had arguments before, he’d used this tactic, and I’d always apologized guiltily. But this time, looking at his face, I only felt disgusted. “I’m sorry, maybe I’ve been under too much stress lately.” “I just care about you too much…” I lowered my head. Seeing me back down, Shiven’s tone softened: “Good girl, I care about you too! You don’t need that kind of thing—you’re already beautiful. Throw it away!” Just then, a very soft cat’s meow came through the video, coquettish and gentle. Shiven quickly reached to cover the microphone, but it was too late. “You got a cat?” I asked with feigned curiosity. His eyes darted away as he laughed dryly: “No, it’s probably that stray cat from the neighborhood begging for food again.” “I’m going to go shoo the cat away. Gotta hang up now—I need to get to work soon. Love you.” The video ended and the room returned to silence. I opened that post, and sure enough, the blogger had updated: [Couldn’t help but make a sound just now, so thrilling.] [He got so scared his face turned white. Hung up the video and pinned me to the bed as punishment. Bad boy.] Looking at those words, I threw the delivery box into the trash. I requested annual leave from my company and bought a ticket on the next flight to his city. By evening, I was standing downstairs from the apartment he rented. He paid the rent here with my secondary credit card, saying it was to be closer to the office for overtime. Now it seemed more like it was convenient for secret meetings. I put on sunglasses and a face mask, found a window seat at the café across the street, and sat down. My phone vibrated. Shiven sent a message: [Baby, I have to work overtime tonight, might not be able to video call.] [Be good and go to sleep on your own. Don’t overthink things. Once I finish this project, I’ll come see you.] I replied with [Okay, take care of yourself.] My gaze traveled through the floor-to-ceiling window just in time to see Shiven walking out of the apartment building with his arm around a woman. That woman wore the same outfit I’d seen in the post, with his jacket draped over her. The two kissed at the apartment entrance, Shiven’s hand wandering around her waist. I raised my phone and opened video recording mode.

Zooming in, the woman’s face appeared clearly on screen—it was indeed that blogger. She looked younger than in her photos, her eyes carrying a seductive glint. The two got into a taxi. I immediately hailed a car and followed. The car stopped at the entrance of a high-end Western restaurant. I followed them inside and sat in a corner not far from them, my back to their direction. The waiter handed me a menu. I randomly ordered a dessert and turned on my phone’s recording function. Fortunately, there were plants providing cover, so they didn’t notice me. “Baby, when are you finally going to dump that plain Jane?” The woman’s voice was drawn out, full of coquettish whining. Shiven said: “Dump her? Why would I dump her?” “She comes from a clean background. Both her parents are government officials. She’s perfect to bring home as a trophy wife.” “Plus, her credit card has a high limit. All our current expenses are on her dime, aren’t they?” My heart constricted. So in his mind, I was just a suitable trophy and a walking ATM. The woman whined coquettishly: “Aren’t you afraid she’ll find out? She video calls you to check on you every night.” Shiven laughed lightly: “We’ve been doing this so long and she hasn’t found out. Once we’re married and I give her a kid, she’ll be even less likely to notice!” “With that brain of hers, she believes everything I tell her.” “Besides, I installed surveillance cameras at home. I can monitor her anytime.” “All I have to do is play a pre-recorded sleeping video, and she thinks I’m asleep. Stupid as hell.” So it wasn’t just deception, but omnipresent surveillance and calculation. The woman seemed pleased: “But you called her ‘baby’ today. How are you going to make it up to me?” “You name it. Whatever you want.” “I want that bag.” “Done. I’ll swipe her card, tell her it’s a gift for her.” “Then send her another empty box.” The sound of their low laughter and clinking glasses was particularly grating. I took out my phone and sent a message to a competitor who’d always wanted dirt on Shiven Smith: [I have exclusive dirt on Shiven Smith that will absolutely destroy his reputation. Interested?] They replied instantly: [As long as it’s real, name your price. We need solid proof.] I sent them a small portion of the video and audio I’d just recorded. They sent back a handshake emoji: [Deal. We need you to release it at the most critical moment for maximum impact.] I put away my phone and watched the two finish their meal and walk out of the restaurant hand in hand. Shiven took out his phone and sent me a message: [Baby, just finished work. I’m exhausted. What are you doing? Miss me? Are you home?] I replied with a bedroom selfie I’d taken earlier: [Watching shows at home. You worked hard, get some rest.] Almost simultaneously, that woman’s post updated: [His girlfriend is home alone in her empty room.] [We’re having wild sex outside, right here in the restaurant parking lot. So thrilling. He says I’m a sex goddess, says that woman is like a dead fish, completely boring.] How despicable does someone have to be to say such things? To cry over this kind of scum would be degrading myself. I was going to make him taste what it’s like to be reviled by millions. Back at the hotel, I began organizing all the transfer records and chat logs from the past three years. Every expense, every excuse he’d used to ask for money—I annotated them all clearly. I also had a tech friend do a frame rate analysis of that looped sleep video. The evidence kept piling up. I stared at the computer screen, my eyes ice-cold. Shiven suddenly initiated a video call. I steadied my breathing and answered. On screen was that hypocritical face of his, with the apartment wall as the background. “Baby, next week is our three-year anniversary. I have a surprise for you.” He smiled. “The company got me a diamond ring promotion deal. I want to propose to you during the livestream.” “Millions of people will be watching us. I want to make the whole world envy you.” I looked at him, the corner of my mouth curling into a cold smile: “Sounds great. I’ve prepared a big surprise for you too. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

For this proposal, Shiven had been building momentum for a long time. He posted a long essay on social media, recalling every bit of our three years together. Between the lines, he portrayed himself as a devoted and loyal man. The comment section was full of moved netizens, all saying they believed in love again. [OMG, staying so sweet through three years of long-distance! What kind of fairy tale love is this!] [The guy is so handsome and devoted. The girl must have saved the galaxy in her past life!] [Can’t wait for the livestream proposal. You two better be happy!] Reading those sentences, all I felt was cold mockery. If these people knew the truth, how would they react? Shiven sent me the livestream schedule, everything meticulously planned, even my lines were written out. “Baby, you just need to show up looking beautiful and nod yes.” “I’ve arranged everything else—lights, sound system, flowers. It’ll be perfect.” I glanced at the schedule and casually probed: “I want to see how the VCR turned out first. What if it’s not good and I can’t control my expression during the livestream?” On screen, Shiven’s eyes flickered briefly, then he smiled indulgently: “Silly, if you watch it beforehand, there won’t be any surprise. Don’t worry, I pulled several all-nighters editing this. It’ll definitely move you to tears.” He immediately changed the subject. After hanging up the video, I looked at the darkened screen. A surprise? There would definitely be a surprise, but it would be the one I was giving him. Since you won’t give me the account access, I’ll just take it myself. Last time we met, I saw him log into that account. The first few characters were my name’s initials, followed by a string of numbers. I entered the username and typed in that password. [Incorrect password.] I stared at the screen and tried our birthdays and anniversary dates. None worked. I suddenly remembered a post on that mistress’s profile: [He always remembers my birthday. So touching.] I checked the calendar and changed the last four digits to that woman’s birthday. Enter. [Login successful.] Seeing the backend interface load, I couldn’t help but laugh. Shiven Smith, oh Shiven Smith, you really are devoted. The account password starts with my name but ends with your mistress’s birthday. Just like you as a person—wearing human skin on the surface, but rotten to the core inside. After logging in to the backend, I saw that “touching VCR.” It really was well-edited, full of our photos and videos together. I replaced it with another video I’d prepared. The filename was identical, the duration roughly the same, but the content was worlds apart. Once done, I logged out of the account and cleared all access traces. That woman’s post updated again: [I heard he’s going to propose to that stupid woman.] [But it’s just to make money to support me. That diamond ring brand is paying him a huge promotion fee.] [He says after the proposal, he’ll take me to Europe, using that woman’s money.] I looked at the screen, the anger in my heart burning out, leaving only resolve. Since you want to put on a show, I’ll build you a stage. On the day of the proposal, the venue was filled with flowers. A huge screen stood in the center, and onlookers packed the plaza. Shiven wore a crisp white suit, his hair styled to perfection, the very picture of a refined gentleman. In the backstage dressing room, he adjusted his bow tie in front of the mirror, his face wearing a smug smile. I stood in the corner, watching him take out his phone to video call that woman: “Babe, where are you? Hidden well? Make sure you’re not spotted.” “I’m in the second-floor viewing area. Best view in the house. Waiting to watch you perform like a monkey.” Shiven laughed lewdly: “After the proposal, I’ll come find you at the hotel.” “Let you experience what the groom’s really capable of.” His words and actions were all captured by the dressing room camera. The livestream countdown began. Staff came over to tell me to get ready. I smoothed my skirt and put on a perfect smile. Shiven stood center stage, holding a microphone, gazing tenderly toward the entrance: “Today, I’m going to propose to perhaps the woman I’ll love most in this lifetime.” “Three years of long-distance, over a thousand days and nights, we’ve finally made it to today.” Thunderous applause erupted below. Livestream comments flooded the screen, and the viewership shot to the top of the charts. I walked toward him step by step. He knelt on one knee, holding up a diamond ring, his eyes reddening: “Marry me. Let me take care of you for the rest of your life. Will you?” I took the microphone, looked into his eyes, and said softly: “Sure. But before I put on the ring, I’ve also prepared a surprise for you.” “Everyone, please look at the big screen. This is my three-year anniversary gift to you.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “383571”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster