On our first wedding anniversary, my wife, Madeline, was two hours late. When she finally walked through the door, I spotted a jagged, dark red stain on the collar of her white silk blouse. It looked like marinara—messy, careless, and intimate. I didn’t need to be a detective to know what it meant. The ghost from her past, the man she’d never quite managed to exorcise from her heart, was back in town. Sensing the weight of my gaze, Madeline didn’t offer an apology. Instead, her face hardened into a mask of practiced indignation. “Dan, I know exactly what you’re thinking,” she snapped, her voice tight with exhaustion. “For once in your life, just let me breathe!” I looked at the diamond ring sitting in its velvet box on the table, then back at her. I decided right then to give her exactly what she wanted. I would let her breathe—permanently. 1 Madeline watched me, her impatience thickening the air between us. “Dan, it’s just a dinner. Why do you have to be so… rigid all the time?” She gestured vaguely at my silhouette. “Look at you. From your head to your toes, every single hair is perfectly in place. You’re trying too hard. You’re so stiff, so flawless, it’s exhausting. It’s like living with a museum exhibit.” I didn’t say a word. I just looked at her, and apparently, that silence was enough to trigger another volley of accusations. I looked down at my bespoke suit. She had clearly forgotten. Today wasn’t just our anniversary; it was the day of the crucial contract signing with the Sterling Group. I had reminded her three times this week. She had checked her calendar. And then, she had simply erased it for him. I stood up, the chair scraping softly against the hardwood. “Madeline, save the speech for the board of directors.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Since I’m such a bore, I’m giving you your freedom. Go to Cody. Be as ‘relaxed’ as you want.” The name hit her like a physical blow. She froze for a heartbeat before her eyes flashed with anger. “Dan, you’re doing this because I missed a dinner? Are you really that petty?” “No,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m doing this because your ‘little dinner’ cost the firm the Sterling contract. Their representative pulled out an hour ago because you weren’t there to sign. Are you satisfied now?” The color drained from her face. I watched the gears turn as she finally remembered the stakes of the day. “I… I didn’t think…” She took a step toward me, reaching out, but I retreated two steps, maintaining the distance. “I’m tired, Madeline. Do whatever you want.” I left the ring on the table. It looked lonely under the soft glow of the chandelier. Upstairs, I changed into something comfortable, the silence of the house ringing in my ears. My phone buzzed. It was my father. “Madeline isn’t coming back tonight? You’ve only been married a year, Dan. What the hell is going on?” “Dad,” I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose, “it was an arrangement. You can’t force a woman like her to love a man like me. I’ve already moved the Sterling reps to the Peninsula. She missed her shot. We’re taking the lead on this ourselves.” My father caught on instantly. The tension in his voice softened into cold professionalism. “Understood. I’ll make the calls. Get some sleep, son.” I was lying in the dark when Madeline finally entered the bedroom. “Look,” she said, her voice small but still edged with that stubborn pride. “I’m sorry. I messed up today.” I didn’t turn around. I kept my back to her, staring at the shadows on the wall. “Go away, Madeline. I’m done.” She bristled. “Oh, for God’s sake, get over yourself! It was one dinner, Dan. I’ll go see the Sterling people tomorrow and fix it. You don’t need to give me the cold shoulder like a child.” She let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “You’re like a piece of wood. No wonder I need some air.” The door slammed shut behind her. I pulled up my phone and saw a text from my lawyer with a draft of the new agreement. I smiled into the dark. Tomorrow? By tomorrow, the world would have already moved on without her. The next morning, Madeline got exactly what she deserved: a closed door and a cold reception at the firm. By noon, she did something unprecedented—she invited me to lunch. I had things I wanted to say, papers I wanted her to see, so I went. As I approached the private dining room at the bistro, a high, lighthearted laugh drifted through the door. “Ugh, why do you eat this fancy stuff? I just want some greasy street tacos and a giant soda!” the voice cried. “Come on, Maddy, live a little. Stop being so uptight!” It was Cody. Of course. “I honestly don’t know how you stand it,” he continued. “Everyone in your circle is so… suffocating. But hey, if I’m here, is Dan going to throw a tantrum?” Madeline’s voice followed, light and dismissive. “Order whatever you want, Cody. Dan is a statue. Just looking at him makes me tired. It’s so much easier with you.” “Right? I told you! I bet he was fuming that you stayed out last night. Did he finally show some actual human emotion?” I felt a cold prickle of realization. Last night hadn’t been an accident. It had been a test. A provocation. I pushed the door open. The room went silent. It wasn’t just the two of them; a few of Madeline’s friends—the “inner circle”—were there too. They looked at me with varying degrees of guilt and amusement. “Hey, Dan’s here!” someone chirped. “Sit down, we were just about to order.” I nodded politely and sat next to Madeline. Cody was directly to her left. He caught her eye, a smug, knowing look passing between them, before he ducked his head to hide a smirk. “Is something funny?” I asked. 2 Cody immediately shifted into his “innocent victim” persona. “Sorry, Dan. I just… seeing you show up for a casual lunch in a full three-piece suit… it feels a little ‘Main Character,’ you know? Like we’re all in your movie.” He sighed dramatically. “But I get it. You were born into this. The pedigree, the expectations. It must be hard to ever just… be a person.” Madeline stepped in to defend her pet. “Dan, seriously. Can’t you just relax for once? Why the suit?” I let out a short, dry laugh. “I just came from the airport. I was seeing the Sterling representatives off. You tell me, Madeline—what should I wear when I’m trying to salvage a multi-million dollar deal that my wife blew off?” The table went quiet. Madeline’s expression crumbled, her bravado failing her for a moment. One of her friends tried to play peacemaker. “Hey, work is work! He looks great, Maddy, don’t be ungrateful.” “Exactly,” another added. “My dad wouldn’t dream of meeting a client in anything less. It’s just business.” Cody let out a snort. “Sounds like wearing a mask 24/7. How exhausting. I’m glad I’m just a ‘regular guy.’ Sometimes I’m so busy I just throw on a hoodie and go. Life’s too short to be a mannequin.” He was so proud of his “authenticity,” but all I saw was a man wearing a cheap knock-off watch and a carefully curated “disheveled” look that probably took him an hour to style. I looked at him, then back at the table, and said nothing. Madeline cleared her throat. “Anyway, let’s eat. I ordered the sea bass for you, Dan. And the oysters.” The food arrived, and for a few minutes, the only sound was the clink of silverware. Madeline even had a server crack open a king crab for me, the meat being meticulously extracted. Cody raised an eyebrow. “You guys are so polite. Seafood is meant to be eaten with your hands! That’s half the fun. Like last night—man, those spicy crawfish? The juice was everywhere!” He suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth, looking at me with wide, mock-apologetic eyes. “Oh man, I am so sorry. I totally lost track of time last night. I forgot it was your anniversary.” He leaned toward Madeline. “I told her you’d probably be mad. I just wanted her to have one night where she didn’t have to be ‘The Mrs. Thorne.’” I put my fork down and smiled at him. It was a pleasant, chilling smile. “Actually, Cody, I should thank you. Because of your little late-night snack, Madeline’s family lost about nine figures in equity. Most of which, coincidentally, ended up in my family’s portfolio this morning.” Madeline’s face went white. Cody gasped, his voice rising. “Nine figures? But you guys are married! What’s yours is hers, right? How can you talk about ‘your’ family and ‘hers’?” “Because we have a prenuptial agreement, Cody. Something you probably wouldn’t understand. Being the son of a groundskeeper, the nuances of estate law likely aren’t your forte. In families like ours, we protect our assets. Especially from people who think a casual fling entitles them to a seat at the table.” I turned to my wife. “Isn’t that right, Madeline?” Madeline slammed her hand on the table. “Enough! Just stop it!” She stood up, her eyes burning. “Fine! You want the truth? I didn’t want to spend the anniversary with you. I stayed out on purpose. You’re so arrogant, so self-righteous—and for what? Because you were born lucky? Stop talking down to everyone!” I nodded. “You’re right. Being born lucky is a skill. And unfortunately for Cody, he’s not very good at it.” Cody’s face twisted. “Dan…” “Don’t call me by my first name. We aren’t friends.” Cody turned beet red. He stammered for a moment before snapping, “You think you’re so much better than me? Madeline’s miserable with you! You have no idea, do you? On your wedding night, while you were probably checking the stock market, she was on the phone with me. We talked all night.” 3 So that was it. I remembered that night. She’d claimed she’d had too much champagne and needed to sleep in the guest suite. I’d been a gentleman. I’d let her be. I smiled. “And yet, I’m the one with the ring on her finger. If you’re so convinced she’s miserable, why don’t you tell her to divorce me?” “Dan!” Madeline shouted. The table was frozen. The “friends” were staring at their plates, wishing they were anywhere else. Madeline grabbed Cody’s arm. “We’re leaving. You don’t have to take this from him.” She dragged him out of the booth. As they walked past me, Cody gave me a look of pure, petty triumph. The friends scrambled to follow. One of them, Isabella, paused at the door. “Dan, seriously? You couldn’t just play nice? She’s a woman, she needs to feel something other than… than this. She says being with you is like being buried alive.” I looked up at her. “Isabella, you have enough problems with your father’s secret family to worry about my marriage. Close the door on your way out.” Her face went purple, and she slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glasses. I sat alone in the silent room. I looked at the server, who was hovering awkwardly. “Finish peeling those shrimp,” I said quietly. “I’m paying for them. I might as well eat.” Once I was finished, I drove straight to my parents’ estate. They looked surprised to see me. “Dad, Mom. I’m filing for divorce.” “Is this about the Sterling contract?” my father asked. “It’s a blow, but we can recover.” “It’s not just the contract. Madeline blew it, and then her father had the audacity to text me, telling me I handled the situation ‘poorly’ and that I should apologize to his wife tonight. They think they can use me as a safety net while she runs around with the help’s son.” I showed him my phone. “Cody is back. They were together all night. This marriage was a fraud from day one.” My father’s eyes turned to ice. “The audacity of that family.” I added, “They played us. They wanted our capital to shore up their weaknesses, and then they let their daughter treat our name like a joke. I’m done.” My mother sighed, looking at me with a mix of pity and pragmatism. “Marriage is a heavy thing, Dan. Just be sure. The next woman might not be any different.” “The next woman won’t be Madeline,” I said. “And I won’t be a fool twice.” I called my lawyer and started the process of surgical separation. In a world of interconnected boards and shared assets, divorce is a messy business, but I had the receipts. When I finally got back to our penthouse, I saw a pair of mud-caked, beat-up sneakers kicked carelessly into the middle of the foyer. Cody was sprawled on my Italian leather sofa, his feet up on Madeline’s lap while he played a game on his phone. He was mid-sentence, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “Maddy, save me! You’re so bad at this game!” Madeline laughed, playfully swatting his leg. The coffee table was littered with cheap snack bags and soda cans. It looked like a frat house. I felt a wave of profound disgust—not just for them, but for the version of myself that had tried to make this work. I walked in, my shoes clicking sharply on the marble. Madeline jumped like she’d been shot. “You… what are you doing here?” I let out a cold laugh. “Did I interrupt your ‘relaxation’ session?” “No, I mean… my dad said you were supposed to be at the house?” “That’s your father’s house. You go explain it to him.” I signaled to the two security guards I’d brought with me. “Pack my things. Everything in the primary suite. Now.” Madeline stood up, her face pale. “Dan, what is this? Cody just got back, he had nowhere to stay for a few days. Don’t be like this!” I looked her dead in the eye. “I’m making room, Madeline. You and Cody can be as ‘unstructured’ as you want in this house. I’m out.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying we’re getting a divorce. I don’t want you anymore.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400783”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It had been five years since my death, and the thing that finally woke my dormant soul was the blinding glare of a ring light. A group of ghost-hunting streamers had breached the rotting doors of the cabin. And they had found my phone. The live chat on their screen was already scrolling at a dizzying speed: “Turn it on! Maybe Jax’s ‘evil spirit’ is actually hot!” The screen flickered to life. My face, pale and smiling faintly, was still the lock screen. “Oh, what the hell. It’s that Montgomery trash. The one who pawned his dead mom’s heirloom to blow cash on high-end escorts.” The streamers didn’t stop there. They dug through the debris, their flashlights cutting through the dust, until they found my bones. One of them reached down, his gloved fingers wrapping around the hilt of the hunting knife still wedged deeply into my skull. “Karma’s a bitch,” the guy muttered, spitting on the floor. “Honestly, I kind of want to stab him a few more times myself. Hey Jax, why don’t we grind his bones to dust and scatter him? Give the internet some closure.” Jax, the lead streamer, looked dead into the camera lens with a manic grin. “Don’t worry, chat. We’ll make sure everyone goes home happy tonight.” My murder. My rotting corpse. It was nothing but a carnival to them. A digital lynching. They decided, right then and there, to air every single video saved on my phone to their tens of thousands of viewers. … “Victoria. Hey, Victoria. They found your brother.” Inside the dimly lit, velvet-lined VIP booth of a Manhattan nightclub, the music seemed to fade as every pair of eyes turned toward Victoria Montgomery. Her hand, holding a crystal martini glass, didn’t even tremble. Her eyes were chips of ice. “As far as I’m concerned, he died in the gutter years ago.” “No, Victoria, he’s actually dead.” Her friend slid a phone across the marble table. “The live chat is talking about grinding his bones to dust. It looks like he was murdered. Someone drove a knife straight through his head.” Victoria didn’t miss a beat. “He had it coming.” She took a slow sip of her drink. “He chose to wallow in his own filth rather than just apologize to Simon. And my mother’s locket… he chose to take its location to his grave. Let him rot.” Sitting practically in her lap, Simon—the adopted golden child of the Montgomery family—wrapped his arms around Victoria’s neck, his face buried in her shoulder. “Vicky, please don’t be mad,” Simon whispered, his voice trembling perfectly. A single, pristine tear slipped down his cheek. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t come into the family, you two wouldn’t have been torn apart.” “I don’t blame him anymore,” Simon continued, his voice thick with rehearsed martyrdom. “No matter what, he’s the blood heir of the Montgomerys. I’m just the charity case. I never had the right to compete with him.” Victoria’s icy exterior melted instantly. She pulled him into a fiercely protective hug. “Stop being so endlessly forgiving, Simon,” she scolded softly. “But… since he’s gone, we can’t let those internet bottom-feeders desecrate his remains. Let’s have him collected and buried properly.” She praised Simon’s gentle heart, then irritably dialed her assistant to handle the grim logistics. But as she hung up, her gaze drifted back to the livestream playing on the table. Back in the decaying cabin, Jax and his crew were tearing my final sanctuary apart. It wasn’t a large space, but they were tossing it like a DEA raid. They pried open my rusted footlocker. Inside, there were only two sets of moth-eaten clothes, and a meticulously wrapped bundle. Inside the waterproof plastic was a single, framed family portrait. “This doesn’t look like the stash of a billionaire heir,” one of the crew muttered. “You idiot, he got disowned for abusing his adopted brother. Obviously he was broke.” “Look at the photo. He literally scratched the adopted brother’s face out. Jesus, the resentment is real.” Suddenly, the cameraman hoisted my phone up like a trophy. “Yo! Chat! I got past the lock screen!” The chat exploded into a digital frenzy. “YES! Open the camera roll. Let’s see what kind of sick stash this psycho was hiding.” Chasing the dopamine hit of pure traffic, Jax eagerly obliged. He opened the photo gallery first. Back in the VIP room, Simon dug his manicured fingers into Victoria’s sleeve. “Vicky, they can’t just go through his phone! That’s his private life. What if…” His eyes darted nervously. Just then, Victoria’s phone buzzed. It was our father, Richard. “I heard they found the boy’s remains,” my father’s gruff, dismissive voice came through the speaker. “Couldn’t even die quietly without causing a scandal. I washed my hands of him years ago. Just… make sure you comfort Simon. You know how he gets night terrors just hearing Cole’s name.” My father’s words perfectly mirrored Victoria’s own thoughts. She murmured an agreement and hung up. On the livestream, Jax pulled up a scanned document from my photos. “Holy shit. Justice is served! This piece of trash had terminal stomach cancer!” “Wow, the guy who stabbed him actually did him a favor. Spared him the chemo.” “Wait, look at the date on the pathology report. That’s the exact same day Victoria Montgomery released the press statement legally severing all ties with him.” “Poetic cinema. Dumped by his family and handed a death sentence on the same day. He must have lost his mind.” The vitriol rolled across the screen in endless waves. I couldn’t feel the phantom pain of my cancer anymore. But the ache in my chest? That was entirely different. It wasn’t just the internet that had destroyed me. It was the fact that, even in death, I was forced to wear the skin of a monster. Finally, Jax tapped on the video folder. “Alright chat, let’s do this chronologically.” He tapped the very first thumbnail. It was my tenth birthday. Mom was still alive. She was radiant, her hands gently clasping an antique gold locket around my neck. “Cole, my sweet boy,” her voice crackled through the phone’s tiny speakers, warm and full of life. “My mother gave this to me, and now it belongs to you. I want it to keep you safe. I want your life to be smooth and beautiful.” She pulled me into a tight hug. Victoria was standing right beside us, grinning, while Dad looked on with a softness he rarely showed the world. We posed in front of a massive, tiered cake. It was the only photo of all of us together that I had managed to save. In the video, ten-year-old me was running around in circles, Victoria chasing after me, yelling at me not to trip. Mom and Dad were holding hands, sharing a quiet, knowing smile. I ran up to the lens, breathless and beaming. “I’m the happiest kid in the world! I wish I could spend every single birthday with Mom, Dad, and Vicky forever!” Thirteen-year-old Victoria popped into the frame, nodding fiercely. “You’re our little prince, Cole. I promise, I’ll make sure that wish comes true.” In the nightclub, someone had AirPlayed the stream to the massive flat-screen above the bar. Everyone in the room was watching. Most of them had been at that exact party. “God, who would have thought? He used to be this sweet, soft kid following Victoria around like a shadow. How did he turn into such a sociopath?” “He just didn’t know when to quit. If he had just swallowed his pride and apologized to Victoria, he’d still be alive.” “Victoria didn’t pull her punches, though. Banished over a piece of jewelry…” “You don’t get it. Their mom died saving Cole and Simon. Victoria would have forgiven Cole for burning the house down, but pawning their dead mother’s heirloom? That was the ultimate betrayal.” Victoria sat rigidly on the leather sofa, suffocating in her silence. Ever since she kicked me out, the vibrant, laughing older sister I knew had vanished. She became fiercely, ruthlessly protective—but not of me. Of Simon. Whatever I used to have, Simon got. Whatever I asked for, she bought double for him. Maybe to spite me. Maybe to break me. Every time I saw a tabloid headline about Victoria dropping millions on a new loft or a sports car for Simon, I felt nothing. We had been so perfect once. But the day they brought Simon home from the foster system, the rot began. Seeing Victoria caught in the memory, Simon panicked. He grabbed her hand. “Vicky, it’s my fault. If you hadn’t brought me into this house, Cole wouldn’t have acted out. Mom wouldn’t have died.” “Mom died because she was protecting both of you,” Victoria snapped, the nostalgic haze instantly burning away into hard anger. “Cole is the one who took her sacrifice and spat on it. He dared to do that.” “It’s just a shame,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. “I never found the locket.” Simon’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. “I actually hired an artisan to make an exact replica for you, Vicky. Maybe… maybe Cole just really needed the cash for something important.” “I had my investigators track the cash,” Victoria scoffed, her face twisting in disgust. “He blew it all on VIP bottle service and high-end escorts.” She patted Simon’s hand, her voice rising so everyone in the room could hear. “A man who sells his mother’s soul to buy a night with a whore is no brother of mine!” Her friends chimed in, eager to soothe her. “Let it go, Vic. He’s dead. Like the chat said, karma handled it.” “Wonder who actually killed him, though.” “Who cares? Victoria, if he had crawled back and told you he had cancer, would you have paid for his treatment?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “I would have told him to die faster.” On the stream, Jax clicked the second video. My phone didn’t have many videos. They had just watched the only happy one. The second video was pitch black. There was only audio: the deafening roar of wind, chaotic muffled sounds, and the violent screech of tires. It was the day of the car crash. Mom was driving Simon and me back from the amusement park. I had been half-asleep in the backseat. The audio captured Mom’s sharp, panicked voice: “Simon, stop! Don’t touch that!” Ever since Simon arrived, I felt like I was losing my mind. Every time he spoke to me alone, it somehow ended with me being punished. Everyone looked at me like I was broken, malicious. So, terrified and desperate, I had started wearing a tiny, discreet GoPro clipped to my jacket zipper. I recorded my days, just to have proof of reality. Especially when I was alone with Simon. This was the final moment of my mother’s life. I had never been able to watch it. I had only dumped the file onto my phone for safekeeping. Now, I was experiencing it alongside thousands of strangers. Suddenly, the black video shifted—the camera must have been knocked loose. The lens flared, catching the front seat. Simon, practically crawling over the center console, violently yanked the steering wheel toward him. “I won’t go back! You can’t send me back to the group home!” he screamed. CRASH. The horrifying sound of metal crushing metal. The car rolling. Mom took the brunt of the impact. The camera caught her pinned, bleeding heavily. But she wasn’t screaming in pain. She was desperately calling my name. The camera angle shifted dizzily as I dragged my small, battered body toward her. Mom reached out with a trembling, blood-soaked hand. She used the last ounce of breath in her lungs. “Cole… my brave boy. Live a good life. Protect your sister. And… tell your father… he has to send Simon away. Do you hear me? Send him away…” Sirens wailed in the background. The video cut out. The aftermath was a memory seared into my soul. They put a white sheet over her. Simon wailed, putting on a performance of grief so absolute it shook the police officers. Dad and Victoria arrived at the precinct, hollowed out by grief. When they asked if Mom had said anything at the end, I told them the truth. I told them her dying wish was to send Simon away. Simon threw himself onto the linoleum floor, shrieking, hyperventilating, begging Dad and Victoria not to throw him away. And then, my father slapped me across the face. “Cole Montgomery! It’s bad enough you bully your brother in private, but now you’re fabricating your mother’s dying words? She loved you both! She would never say that! You make me sick.” I had sobbed, holding my stinging cheek. “Dad, Vicky, please, I have it on camera! I can prove it!” But they were already walking away, carrying Simon in their arms. In the abandoned cabin, Jax and his crew stood frozen. “Wait,” one of the crew whispered. “This kid… he caused the crash? He murdered his adoptive mom because he didn’t want to get sent back to foster care?” “Jesus Christ. This is some psycho ‘Talented Mr. Ripley’ shit. He killed the mom, played the victim, and turned the family against the real son.” “Is this real? I thought Simon was this sweet, philanthropic actor. Did he really grab the wheel?” In the VIP room, the silence was suffocating. Victoria stared at the screen, all the blood draining from her face. Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head to look at Simon. “You,” she whispered, her voice fracturing. “You killed my mother?” “She gave you everything, and you pulled the wheel?” The realization hit her like a physical blow. “So that day at the precinct… Cole was telling the truth. Why? Why was she going to send you back?” Victoria’s chest heaved. Her mother was sacred. When Victoria had arrived at the crash site, seeing her mother crushed and her two little brothers covered in blood, she had sworn over her mother’s body that she would protect them both. And now, she was realizing that one brother was dead, and the other was the reason her mother was in the ground. Simon panicked. He dropped to his knees right there in the VIP booth, grabbing Victoria’s dress. “Vicky, please! I was just a kid! I was terrified! Mom figured out that I was the one who broke Dad’s antique vase, not Cole. She said she was going to call the agency. I just… I just wanted to stop the car so I could beg her!” “I didn’t know the car would flip! I swear to God! I’ve spent every day of my life trying to make it up to you! I’ve been repenting for a decade!” “Vicky, I’m so sorry! Please don’t hate me!” Victoria’s mind was short-circuiting. Her mother’s dying, blood-choked words echoed through the club’s speakers. Protect your sister. Send Simon away. Suddenly, Blair Kensington—my former fiancée—stepped forward, placing a manicured hand on Victoria’s shoulder. “Vic, take a breath. Simon made a horrible mistake, but he was literally a traumatized child. He’s still the brother you raised and loved.” “If your mother hadn’t threatened to abandon him over a vase, he wouldn’t have panicked. He was insecure. And let’s be honest, you guys only made Cole kneel in the hallway for a few days over the vase anyway. It wasn’t a big deal.” Victoria let out a shaky breath. Even if they had wrongly accused Cole of breaking the vase, did he really have to hold a grudge against Simon for years? Mom overreacted by threatening to send a foster kid back over something so trivial. “Get up,” Victoria said, her voice hollow. “Stop crying. We can’t change the past.” “I love you, Vicky. I’d die for you,” Simon whimpered, standing up and burying his face in his hands. He let out a breath of immense relief. He had survived the landmine. Under the table, his fingers flew across his phone, texting frantically. [Where the fuck are your guys? If they keep streaming, the rest of it is going to get out. Cut the power!] But the massive screen above them kept playing. Blair noticed Simon shaking and wrapped an arm around him. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Cole is dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.” “But… he was your fiancé, Blair,” Simon murmured, looking up through his lashes. Victoria snapped her head toward Blair. The chat’s accusations of a “fake heir” destroying the “real heir” were beginning to burn like acid in her brain. How could her sweet, devoted Simon be the monster the internet was painting him as? “Let’s see what else the dead boy kept on his phone,” Victoria commanded, her voice like cracking ice. Video Three. “Tell me, Cole. If I fall into this pond right now, who is Blair going to believe? You, or me?” Simon’s voice. But it wasn’t the trembling, sweet voice he used in the VIP room. It was dripping with venom and mockery. On the screen, my own voice answered, exhausted and utterly defeated. “What more do you want from me? You stole my father. You stole my sister. Now you’re taking the woman I was supposed to marry. What is the endgame here?” Simon, leaning against the stone railing of our estate’s koi pond, smiled. It was a terrifying, dead-eyed smile. “As long as you exist, I’m in danger. The blood heir. You make me nervous. So, I need them to despise you. I need them to abuse you. I need them to want you dead. I won’t be able to sleep until you’re in the ground.” He stepped closer to the hidden camera on my chest. “Why do you get to be born into billions? I was thrown into a literal dumpster in January. If a sanitation worker hadn’t heard me crying, I would have frozen to death.” “Do you know what the group homes are like? Rich people like your parents show up around Thanksgiving, hand out cheap toys, and make us smile for the cameras so they can feel like saints. And then they use us as cautionary tales for their own spoiled brats.” Simon’s face twisted into pure malice. “The day I saw you standing in the orphanage lobby in your custom little suit, looking so soft and loved, I made a promise to myself. I was going to take your life. All of it.” My voice trembled in the recording. “You set me up… you manipulated me into bringing you to my mother so she would pity you?” “Bingo!” With that word, Simon suddenly grabbed my wrists, yanking them toward his own chest, and screamed at the top of his lungs. “Cole! No! I promise I’ll stay away from Blair! Please don’t push me!” SPLASH. He threw himself backward into the deep water. Seconds later, Blair sprinted into the frame. Without a second of hesitation, she shoved me violently into the water and dove in to rescue Simon. The camera caught the underwater chaos, and then the aftermath on the grass. Blair cradling a “shivering” Simon, shooting me a look of absolute disgust. The next cut in the video was Blair marching into Victoria’s home office. “I will not marry a psychopath who tries to drown his own brother,” Blair demanded. “The engagement is off. If our families need a merger, I’ll marry Simon. At least he has a soul.” Ever since I was twelve and someone—I never saw who—pushed me into a lake, I had been deathly afraid of water. I had almost drowned in that koi pond. But when I finally coughed up the water and opened my eyes, there was no concern. Only Victoria, standing over me, her eyes filled with revulsion. “The Kensington engagement is off. If you pull a stunt like this again, Cole, I’ll have you committed to an institution abroad.” The viewers in the livestream, and the elites in the VIP room, fell into a stunned, horrified silence. “Bro. Simon isn’t just an opportunist. He’s a straight-up predator.” “Imagine being Cole. Your own sister and your fiancé literally acting like Helen Keller when the truth is right there.” “He literally confessed to a psychological takeover of the family. He wanted the ‘true son’ dead.” “I used to think Simon was this brilliant method actor. Turns out he’s just a sociopath playing himself.” “Wait, is the sister watching this? Does she realize she’s been the attack dog for the guy who murdered her mom and destroyed her brother?” “Hold up, let’s not make Cole a saint yet. He still pawned his dead mom’s locket to buy hookers. They’re both trash.” In the club, Victoria’s fists were clenched so tight her knuckles were stark white. Everyone in the room was glancing nervously between Victoria, Blair, and Simon. “Vic,” Blair stammered, her arrogance faltering. “You… you know how manipulative Cole is. He probably deep-faked that audio. Or provoked Simon into saying it!” When Victoria didn’t answer, Blair doubled down. “Simon is gentle! He wouldn’t orchestrate something like that!” Victoria slowly turned her head. Her expression was completely unreadable. “Shut up.” She locked eyes with Simon. “Did he push you, or did you throw yourself in?” “Are you seriously interrogating him right now?” Blair shrilled. “I knew it! Deep down, you still prioritize that toxic blood brother over Simon!” “I am speaking to him,” Victoria roared, the sound cutting through the club like a gunshot. She desperately, painfully didn’t want to believe that the boy she had babied for years was the monster on that screen. “I… I don’t know,” Simon stuttered, tears welling up instantly. “Vicky, I swear, I never wanted to hurt him!” Victoria stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, she let out a slow exhale. “Okay.” Blair let out a breath of relief. “See? I told you. You can’t trust anything Cole touched.” The next few videos were painfully mundane. They were recordings of my design sketches, my architectural concepts, my late-night brainstorms. And then, screenshots of those exact same designs, published under Simon’s name. He had stolen my portfolio to launch his own design firm. When I tried to fight back, I was blacklisted. Every firm in the city told me the same thing: Victoria Montgomery had personally ordered them not to hire me. To survive, I had resorted to collecting scrap metal and recycling. The audio of a phone call with Victoria played over a video of my blistered, filthy hands. “Just apologize to Simon,” her voice was tired and condescending over the line. “Admit you plagiarized his work. If you do, I’ll talk to Dad. The Montgomery trust can keep you comfortable for ten lifetimes. Why are you embarrassing us by digging through trash?” “Because he stole them from me, Vicky! Why won’t you just look at the timestamps? Why won’t you believe me?!” I had screamed, crying in an alleyway. “You’re still so stubborn. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson,” she snapped, and hung up. Things got worse after that. People recognized me on the street. They would kick over my recycling bags, spilling the cans I had spent all day collecting. They filmed me scrambling to pick them up. “Hey, look! It’s the Montgomery heir! Stealing jobs from the homeless now?” “That’s what you get for messing with Simon, you freak!” The video showed a group of frat boys kicking me into the pavement. I didn’t even fight back. I just curled into a ball. Finally, a kind stranger intervened, chased them off, and tried to call an ambulance. I refused. The stranger pressed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into my bleeding hand. “Take it, kid. Everyone hits rock bottom. Don’t give up on yourself,” the man had said. The video ended with me sitting alone in a subway station, bruised, bleeding, and entirely broken. People walked a wide circle around me, repulsed by the smell of blood and grime. I pulled Mom’s gold locket from beneath my filthy shirt, clutching it to my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Mom,” I whispered to the camera, my voice shattered. “I don’t even know why I keep recording this. Even if someone sees it, they’ll just say I faked it. Nobody is ever going to believe me again.” In the cabin, Jax exhaled a ragged breath. His hands, holding the phone, were visibly shaking. “I believe you, man,” he whispered to the empty room. Behind him, his crew members were wiping their eyes. “Jesus, that’s just… that’s evil.” The chat was moving so fast it was a blur of text. “Simon stole his entire life. His talent, his family, his safety.” “I feel physically sick. The sister starved him out to protect a parasite.” “No way, this is all AI generated! Simon wouldn’t do this!” “Are you brain dead? You literally just watched the guy get beaten in the street because his sister blacklisted him over fake plagiarism. The Montgomerys need to be in jail.” Victoria sat frozen in the VIP room, the memories flashing behind her eyes. She dialed her executive assistant. The man answered, panting. “Ms. Montgomery, I just reached the coordinates. It’s way out in the Adirondacks. But… there’s already a crowd here. Locals, and… I think I saw Simon’s cousin by the police tape.” Victoria ignored the detail about the cousin. “Get in there. Confiscate the phone. I need my cyber-security team to verify the files.” “I can’t, ma’am. The internet is rioting. They’re demanding the police and independent experts verify it live on the stream.” “Then make sure our people are in the room when they do.” Victoria hung up. She slowly turned her gaze to Simon, who was sweating through his designer shirt. “Why are you shaking?” she asked softly. “I’m not,” Simon forced a sickly smile, leaning in to try and use his usual charm. Blair interjected again. “Vic, even if Simon made some mistakes, Cole still pawned your mother’s locket. That’s unforgivable.” The mention of the locket was like throwing gasoline on a dying fire. Victoria, who had been numb, felt the white-hot rage return. She could forgive the car crash—barely. She could maybe even forgive the corporate sabotage. But her mother’s soul? No. “Did I say I forgave him for that?” Victoria hissed. The stream had played through almost all the videos. Most of them were just quiet, sad moments of a life falling apart. Until the second to last video. I was shoved, unconscious, onto the leather sofa of a seedy karaoke bar. This was the footage I had never dared to review. The camera angle was obscured, peeking out from my jacket. Simon walked into the frame. He was impeccably dressed, looking down at my unconscious body with a smirk. He waved a hand, and four high-end escorts walked into the room. “Do whatever you want,” Simon told the women, tossing a thick stack of hundreds onto the glass table. “Just make it look messy. And if anyone asks, he paid you with the cash he got from pawning a vintage gold locket. Got it?” “Understood, Mr. Montgomery,” one of the women giggled. They descended on me, pulling at my clothes. Simon walked out of the room, and the heavy thud of the door locking echoed through the speakers.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400782”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was the first day of the semester. I was still hauling my suitcases into the dorm when Trinity Ward suddenly grabbed my hand. Her face was flushed, her eyes shimmering with a mix of nerves and a strange, triumphant heat. “Quinn,” she whispered, her voice carrying just enough to reach our other roommates. “Starting today, I’m going to be your stepmother. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.” I froze. The iced latte in my hand slipped, hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud. Plastic cracked, and brown liquid splattered across my white sneakers. “Stepmother?” I repeated, the word tasting like ash. “Trinity, you’ve got the wrong person.” I forced a dry laugh and tried to wrench my hand back. “You can’t just go around saying things like that. My father is—” Seeing my disbelief, she didn’t hesitate. She whipped out her phone and began swiping through a gallery of photos. My heart did a slow, painful roll. There he was: my father, Richard Beaumont. In every photo, Trinity was draped over him, their poses intimate enough to make my skin crawl. Finally, she pulled a folded slip of paper from her designer bag and thrust it under my nose. Trinity Ward, 22. Four months pregnant. Fetal vitals: Normal. She rested a hand on her still-flat stomach, a beatific, sickeningly sweet smile spreading across her lips. “Your dad said as soon as you were settled in for the semester, we’d go down to the courthouse and make it official.” I stared at the ultrasound report, and suddenly, I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. Poor Trinity. She had done her homework on the Beaumont family fortune, but she’d missed one very private, very permanent detail. My father had a vasectomy twenty years ago. … My first instinct was that this was some twisted hazing ritual. I patted her shoulder, still grinning. “Okay, okay, you got me. Truth or Dare? You’re a great actress, Trinity. For a second there, I actually thought you were serious.” Trinity cut me off, her expression shifting instantly to one of wounded innocence. “I’m not lying to you, Quinn. I know who your father is. I know he’s the CEO of Beaumont International. I know I’m ‘just’ a student and people will say I’m not good enough for him.” She took a shaky breath. “But your mother has been gone for so long, and what he and I have is real. Please, just give us your blessing.” A chill settled over me. This wasn’t a joke. My father, Richard Beaumont, was the city’s most eligible bachelor. The line of women trying to climb into his life stretched out the door of his penthouse and around the block. But in all these years, not one had ever made it past the velvet ropes. It wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful enough. It was because my father’s “garden” had been salted and burned long ago. When my mother almost died giving birth to my brother and me, the terror changed him. He couldn’t lose her again. The day we were born was the day he scheduled his vasectomy. And now, this girl was telling me he’d managed to conjure a miracle baby in his fifties? The absurdity of it was staggering. Without another word, I pulled out my phone to call him. I wanted to hear the confusion in his voice. I wanted him to shut this down. But before the call could connect, Madison Miller, our third roommate, lunged forward and snatched the phone out of my hand. “Stop it, Quinn! You can’t just call him like that!” “He’s my father, Madison. Give it back.” “Mr. Beaumont is a busy man,” Madison argued, her voice frantic. “If you call him and start accusing him of things, think of how embarrassed he’ll be. Besides, Trinity is sensitive right now. Think of the baby! Can’t we just talk this out as adults without making a scene?” I opened my mouth to explain that it was biologically impossible for Trinity to be carrying a Beaumont heir, but Trinity cut in, her voice dissolving into soft sobs. “Quinn, please don’t call Richard.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, a masterclass in performative grief. “I don’t want to cause trouble between you two. I know you’re angry… but this is real. I’m carrying his child.” “I’ll be better to you than a real mother ever could,” she choked out. “I’m begging you. Just give me a chance.” I was caught between fury and exhaustion. I tried to keep my voice level. “Trinity, we’re theater majors. Our reputations are everything. You’re young. Don’t let someone brainwash you into this. This baby… it isn’t his. If you go through with this lie, how are you going to live with yourself?” I thought I was being helpful, but I’d clearly touched a nerve. Trinity shoved my hand away, clutching her stomach as she wailed. “You just don’t want us to be together! Fine! I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow. I’ll get rid of the baby! Is that what you want? Are you happy now?” The sheer audacity of her playing the victim made my blood boil. “I’m giving you a reality check. What you do with your body is your business, but don’t you dare pin this on my family.” The words had barely left my lips when Madison rushed over to scoop Trinity into an embrace, glaring at me over her shoulder. “Quinn, that is cold, even for you! Trinity is going through enough, and you’re standing there making up lies to gaslight her? Where is your heart?” The commotion had drawn our other two roommates into the common area. They stood by the door, whispering and casting judgmental glances my way. Trinity, seeing her audience, doubled down. “I know I’m younger than Richard… I know it looks bad,” she sobbed into Madison’s shoulder. “But I love him. I didn’t mean for the pregnancy to happen, I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to take care of Quinn. Why is she being so mean? Why is she making up stories about her own father?” The “poor little pregnant girl” act was working. One of the girls by the door stepped forward. “Look, Quinn, even if you hate the idea, you shouldn’t say such hurtful things. It’s messed up.” “Exactly,” the other chimed in. “It’s the twenty-first century. If it’s true love, who cares about the age gap? You’re being so old-fashioned.” “If I were you, I’d just accept it. She’s going to be your stepmom. It’s better to have her as an ally than an enemy. Don’t make it weird.” My brain felt like it was going to short-circuit. A red veil of rage dropped over my vision. I turned on them, my voice cracking. “You want to talk about ‘weird’? How about a girl our age claiming she’s my new mommy on the first day of school? Let’s see how ‘progressive’ you feel when your dad brings home a classmate!” I stepped toward them, ready to have it out, but Madison jumped between us, playing the peacemaker. “Stop, stop! Quinn, you know how she is—she doesn’t have a filter, she didn’t mean it that way. Trinity is pregnant; she can’t be stressed like this. Can’t you just humiliate her some other time? If something happens to that baby because of your temper, can you live with that?” Trinity stopped crying just long enough to look at me with big, watery eyes. “Quinn, I know it’s a lot to take in. I can wait. I’ll wait for you to accept me. Just… stop lying about your dad. I really am pregnant with his child. I’ll be so good to you, I promise. Just believe me once.” I studied Trinity. She couldn’t hold my gaze. Her eyes flitted toward the door, then to Madison. There was a frantic edge to her “sincerity” that confirmed everything. There was a grift happening here. But why? Why target me with such a blatant, easily debunked lie? Madison began rubbing Trinity’s back, her tone shifting to that of a concerned older sister—though every word she said was a poisoned arrow aimed at me. “Come on, Quinn. Let it go. Trinity is in a fragile state. We all live together; we have to see each other every day. For the sake of the dorm, can we just move past this?” She nudged Trinity, signaling her to “try” one more time. I looked at them—the weeping “mother-to-be” and her “loyal protector”—and I started to laugh. A cold, hard sound. “The thing is, Madison, I’m not lying. My father had a vasectomy twenty-one years ago. He is sterile. I have the medical records in my digital vault. I can pull them up and project them on the wall right now if you’d like.” I turned to Trinity, my eyes turning to ice. “And you. You say you’re carrying a Beaumont. Tell me, Trinity—what’s his middle name? What’s the name of his private equity firm? Where exactly is our estate located?” The room went silent for a heartbeat. Trinity’s crying hitched. Then, she let out a howl louder than before. “You’re testing me on his name? His name is Richard Beaumont! He’s the CEO of Beaumont International! You live at 18 Seaside Drive!” She gasped for air, her words coming out in a frantic rush. “He has a silver picture frame on his nightstand. It’s a photo of your mother. The corner of the frame is dented because you dropped it when you were six, and he won’t replace it because he says it reminds him of you. He polishes it every single morning!” My heart skipped. She was right. Those were details only someone who had been inside our house—inside my father’s bedroom—would know. My mind raced. How? My father was sterile. That was a fact. But how did she know about the dented frame? Before I could process the confusion, Trinity grabbed the collar of her shirt and yanked it down, revealing a cluster of dark purple bruises on her neck. “Your dad did this,” she said, her face reddening, but her voice steady. “He said he loves seeing his mark on me. Even with the baby, he can’t keep his hands off me. Every night. Sometimes in the afternoon… I tell him to be gentle, but he just laughs and says he’s too happy to stop.” She was on a roll now, the details getting cruder. “He’s so needy. He won’t even let me get dressed after I shower. He says he just wants to hold me. One time, while I was making pasta in the kitchen, he came up behind me and—” “Okay, okay! Too much information!” Madison’s face was bright red as she covered Trinity’s mouth. The other two roommates looked stunned, their expressions a mix of secondhand embarrassment and prurient curiosity. Trinity fell quiet. Madison cleared her throat, adopting a “reasonable” tone. “Look, Quinn. I get it. This is a nightmare for you. But at the end of the day, this is family business. If this gets out, it’ll ruin the Beaumont reputation. The press will have a field day.” She leaned in closer. “Maybe you should just… give everyone a little something to keep things quiet. A hush-money gesture. We all keep our mouths shut, and this stays in this room. It’s for your own good, you see?” Trinity nodded vigorously. “Yeah, Quinn. I’ve spent so much on prenatal vitamins and private checkups. It’s so expensive.” She looked at me with a greedy glint in her eyes. “Your dad always told me how generous you are. A real socialite. A little help wouldn’t hurt you.” She started counting on her fingers. “Fifty thousand each. There are four of us. Two hundred thousand dollars. To you, that’s just the price of a Birkin bag.” “If we get the money, nobody says a word,” Madison added with a slick smile. “Your dad’s reputation stays intact, Trinity can focus on the baby, and we all stay friends. Everyone wins.” She looked at me like she was doing me the biggest favor in the world. I stood there, watching the two of them perform their little duet, and the pieces finally clicked into place. “So,” I said slowly. “This whole elaborate soap opera… was just a shakedown for cash?” Trinity’s face faltered for a second. Madison’s smile dimmed, but she held her ground. “Quinn, how can you say that? We’re thinking about your family’s name—” “Too bad,” I said, stepping back and leaning against my desk. “My father had his surgery twenty-two years ago. He can’t get anyone pregnant. Whoever’s ‘seed’ is growing in there, go find the real father and leave mine out of it.” Trinity turned pale. The two silent roommates suddenly found their voices again, their tones sharp. “Quinn, stop being delusional! We’ve seen the photos of your dad and Trinity. They’re unmistakable!” “Yeah! We even saw your dad picking her up at the campus gate last night. That black Bentley? Hard to miss. If he wasn’t there for her, then why was he even at the school?” Their certainty was unshakable. My stomach dropped. I hadn’t known my father was on campus last night. Madison sighed and patted my arm. “Quinn, honey… I know it’s hard to accept. But your dad was here. If you don’t believe us, I have the video.” She held up her phone. In the grainy footage, a black Bentley was idling near the North Gate. My father was leaning against the door, scrolling through his phone as if waiting for someone. Madison swiped through more photos. My father and Trinity at a dimly lit restaurant. In the car. Him ruffling her hair. His arm around her shoulders. Every shot was perfectly framed. I gripped my phone, my fingers icy. The photos didn’t look photoshopped. The lighting, the angles—everything looked painfully real. The air felt thin. My legs felt like they were going to give out. But a stubborn spark of intuition kept me upright. I pulled out my phone and dialed my father. Again. And again. The ringing was like a rhythmic torture. Every beeeeep made my heart hammer harder against my ribs. Just as I was about to give up, his voice—warm, familiar, and calm—filled the line. “Hey, Quinn. Sorry, sweetheart. I was in a board meeting. Is everything okay?” My throat felt tight. “Dad… were you at my school yesterday?” “I was,” he said, his voice tinged with a slight apology. “I had some business nearby and stopped by the gate to catch up with an old friend. I figured you were busy settling into the dorm, so I didn’t want to bother you.” It sounded reasonable. But it didn’t explain the photos. I gritted my teeth and asked the question that was tearing me apart. “Dad… are you seeing someone? Is there… a baby?” There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. My heart sank into my stomach. “Mr. Beaumont, the files are ready for the second session…” I heard his secretary’s voice in the background. “Quinn, I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll explain everything later, okay? Be a good girl. I have to go.” Click. The dial tone echoed in my ear. I stood there, frozen, as tears finally broke through and hot tracks ran down my face. Madison walked over and draped an arm around my shoulders. “Quinn, your mom has been gone a long time. Your dad and Trinity are both single adults. It’s natural. Don’t overthink it.” “I don’t believe it!” I shoved her away. “My father isn’t like that! He loved my mother so much he ensured he’d never have children with anyone else. He wouldn’t just… throw that away for a college student!” “It’s a lie! Trinity is lying! You’re all lying!” My mind was screaming. I had to see that pregnancy report again. It had to be a forgery. I lunged toward Trinity’s bed, reaching for her designer bag, desperate to find the paper. But before I could touch it, the other two roommates grabbed my arms, pinning me back. “Quinn, calm down! She’s pregnant! You can’t attack her!” I struggled, sobbing now, watching Trinity cower behind Madison. For a split second, the mask slipped, and I saw a flash of triumph in Trinity’s eyes. Then, a familiar voice drifted in from the hallway. “Quinn? I’m here.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400781”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I used to think I had the most fiercely loyal, devoted girlfriend in the world. For seven years of long-distance, Caroline demanded a level of transparency that bordered on obsession. She needed my location shared at all times; she required a text if I so much as stepped out of my London office to grab a coffee. I thought it was love. I thought she just missed me. But today, Caroline vanished. I called her over a hundred times. It went straight to voicemail. I tried her executive assistant, her driver, the housekeeper at her New York estate—nothing. A cold, suffocating panic set into my chest. I bought the most expensive, earliest flight out of Heathrow, crossing the Atlantic, terrified something horrific had happened to her. When my cab finally pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of her Hamptons estate, a black Maybach was already idling in the driveway. The rear door opened, and Caroline stepped out. A wave of dizzying relief washed over me. I took a step forward, the words Why weren’t you answering? already forming on my lips. Then, she smiled. It was a radiant, intoxicating smile I hadn’t seen in person for months. She walked around to the passenger side, opened the door herself, and murmured in a voice dripping with honey, “Your carriage awaits, my prince.” A man stepped out of the car. Without missing a beat, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her flush against his chest. I froze. The breath was punched out of my lungs. Caroline was cheating on me. And the man burying his face in her neck was Tristan Cole. My estranged mother’s illegitimate son. … My hands shook so violently I had to grip my phone with both hands as I stumbled backward behind the manicured hedges. I hit her contact and pressed call. Out in the driveway, a ringtone pierced the quiet air. Caroline pulled back, glancing down at her screen. A flicker of profound annoyance crossed her perfect features. Her thumb hovered over the red ‘decline’ button. Tristan caught her wrist, his lips curling into a smirk. “You should probably answer it. Otherwise, my dear big brother is just going to keep blowing up your phone. It’s killing the mood.” Caroline let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Who was it that pinned me down yesterday and forbade me from looking at my phone? Feeling generous today, are we?” Tristan’s eyes darkened with raw, unfiltered lust. “That’s only because the sounds you were making were driving me crazy. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else hearing you.” Her gaze turned heavy, hooded with desire. “Is that so? Then we’ll just have to pick up where we left off tonight.” Only then did she swipe right to answer. Standing less than fifty feet away, I fought back the bile rising in my throat. I dug my nails into my palms, forcing my voice to stay steady. “What are you doing?” Caroline immediately let out a weak, raspy cough. “Nate, baby,” she croaked, playing the part of an invalid flawlessly. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been running a terrible fever since yesterday. I’ve been in and out of consciousness. I didn’t even hear the phone. I’m so sorry I worried you.” I squeezed my eyes shut. The darkness offered no relief. “Is that so?” I managed to choke out. “You shouldn’t be alone. Maybe I should fly back to the States to take care of you.” A microscopic pause. Then, her voice returned, gentle and entirely composed. “Your work in London is too important. I could never ask you to drop everything for me. I’m feeling much better now, really. Just focus on yourself, okay?” I stared at her through the leaves. I searched her face for a single twitch of guilt, a fleeting shadow of remorse. There was nothing. Just the calm, practiced mask of a liar. “Okay,” I whispered into the receiver. “I understand.” I hung up before the sob could break free. Seconds later, my phone buzzed. A text from Caroline. I feel awful for missing your calls, baby. I ordered a cake to be delivered to your flat. Things are crazy at the firm today, but I’ll FaceTime you the second I’m done. She attached a little pleading emoji. It looked so sincere. So deeply, convincingly loving. If I hadn’t been standing right here, watching Tristan trail his fingers down her spine, I would have believed her. I would have eaten that cake feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. A sharp, stabbing pain radiated through my chest as I watched them walk into the house, their silhouettes melting together. Why? my mind screamed. Why Tristan? Caroline knew. She knew better than anyone breathing that Tristan Cole was the physical embodiment of the worst trauma of my life. When I was fifteen, my mother had an affair. The fallout didn’t just break our family; it destroyed my father. I watched a brilliant, vibrant man wither into a hollow, depressed ghost. He drank until his liver gave out, losing fifty pounds in six months. I remember kneeling on the hardwood floor, begging my mother to come home, just to visit him. She looked at me, adjusted her designer coat, and said, Tristan’s father gets jealous easily. I can’t. I watched my dad die of a broken heart. It was slow, agonizing, and entirely their fault. Caroline grew up next door. She was my sanctuary during those dark years. When my dad passed, she held me as I thrashed and screamed, staining her shirts with my tears. She cursed my mother. She cursed Tristan and his father. She looked me in the eyes and swore, Your enemies are my enemies, Nate. One day, I’m going to ruin them for you. The ghost of her vow echoed in my ears, mocking me. Now, she was doing exactly what my mother had done. Perhaps even worse. I was shivering violently when Rosa, Caroline’s long-time housekeeper, stepped out to retrieve the mail. She jumped when she saw me standing by the gates. “Mr. Brooks! Good lord, what are you doing out here in the cold? Come inside, let me make you some tea!” She thought the cold was making me tremble. She didn’t know the ice was in my veins. I stretched my lips into a polite, agonizingly stiff smile. “I’m fine, Rosa. I’m not cold.” Rosa looked at me, her eyes darting toward the main house, then back to me. Pity pooled in her gaze. “Mr. Brooks… did you… did you see?” The confirmation felt like a physical blow. “So, they’re here often,” I stated flatly. Rosa turned pale. She wrung her hands. “Mr. Brooks, please don’t take it to heart. Miss Pierce is just… she’s just having a bit of fun. A distraction. I see the way she looks at pictures of you. You’re the one she truly loves.” My jaw felt wired shut. “Right. I understand. Please, Rosa, don’t tell her I was here.” Rosa let out a heavy sigh and nodded. “My lips are sealed. Take care of yourself, sir.” I dragged my numb legs down the winding driveway. As I passed the sprawling glass greenhouse, I stopped dead in my tracks. Years ago, Caroline had imported hundreds of rare white camellias—my late father’s favorite flower—and filled the greenhouse with them, just to make me smile. Now, the camellias were gone. The entire greenhouse was overflowing with vibrant, aggressive Birds of Paradise. Tristan’s favorite flower. If this was just a “distraction,” just a fleeting moment of physical boredom as Rosa claimed, why the flowers? Why erase my ghost from her home so entirely? A sickening dread consumed me. I stumbled to a nearby hotel, checked into a sterile room, and dialed Caroline’s number one more time. She picked up on the second ring. Her tone was light, teasing. “Miss me already, baby? I thought we were doing FaceTime later?” Hearing that bubbly, innocent voice superimposed over the image of her in Tristan’s arms made me want to rip my skin off. I dug my fingers into the hotel mattress. “I just… I was thinking about the camellias in the greenhouse. Could you send me a picture of them?” Dead silence on the line. Then, her voice pitched up in feigned surprise. “The camellias? What brought that up? Sure, hold on, I’ll take a picture when I get home.” “Okay,” I said blankly. Suddenly, the unmistakable shatter of glass echoed through the phone, followed by a man’s low curse. “Jesus, you’re so clumsy,” Caroline snapped instinctively, the sweet tone vanishing. “Just leave it, don’t touch the glass, I’ll get it—” She stopped, suddenly remembering I was on the line. “Nate, my new assistant just dropped a tray of glasses,” she lied, her breathing a little quicker now. “I have to go help him clean it up. Talk later.” Click. The dial tone hummed against my ear, a monotonous soundtrack to my absolute humiliation. Thirty minutes later, my phone dinged. An image of the greenhouse, bursting with pristine white camellias. I zoomed in. In the bottom right corner, a timestamp watermark from a photography app. October, last year. She didn’t even bother to check the photo before sending it. That was how stupid she thought I was. How easily managed. I dropped the phone. I covered my face with my hands and started to laugh. The laughter scraped against my throat, hollow and terrifying, until it broke into heavy, scalding tears that slipped through my fingers. In my mind’s eye, I was dragged back seven years. Caroline wasn’t the polished, untouchable CEO of Pierce Holdings back then. She was just a girl who followed me everywhere. Once, some older guys from a rival school harassed her. I fought three of them off, ending up with a split lip and a bruised rib. As she dabbed antiseptic on my face, she cried, calling me an idiot. But then she smiled, her eyes shining with raw adoration. You’re the best thing in this world, Nate. I’m going to cling to you for the rest of my life. When we graduated, my mother handed my father’s massive corporate empire over to her new husband and Tristan. I was left with a tiny, struggling subsidiary in London. I had to leave to salvage what was left of my father’s legacy, to become a man worthy of standing beside the heiress to the Pierce fortune. At JFK airport, Caroline sobbed into my chest. She gripped my jacket like she was trying to fuse our ribs together. Wait for me, Nate. Give me a few years to take full control of the Pierce board, and I’ll buy back everything they stole from you. We’ll bring you home. We thought it would be a year. Two, tops. It had been seven. Last year, she finally became the undisputed CEO. I asked when I could move my operations back to New York. She gave me excuses. Market volatility. Board pushback. Now the truth was painfully clear. She didn’t lack the power to bring me back. She just didn’t want me here. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father’s emaciated face. Hatred, violently mixed with the pathetic remnants of my love for Caroline, tore through me until I felt physically ill. I wondered, in the darkest hours of the morning, if this was how my father felt right before he gave up. As dawn broke, a calendar notification popped up on my screen. Anniversary. It was our seventh anniversary. I stared blankly at the screen. A few hours later, Caroline’s text arrived precisely on schedule. Happy Anniversary, my love. I had your gift flown in overnight. Make sure you sign for it. I’m so sorry I can’t fly out to see you this year. The merger is taking all my time. Be a good boy and forgive me, okay? The merger. Right. I was a glutton for punishment, so I opened my laptop. I paid a private investigator I’d used for corporate due diligence a hefty rush fee to pull all of Tristan and Caroline’s private social media accounts. For the first six years of my absence, Tristan’s feed was devoid of her. Then, last year, Tristan was appointed as a VP at Pierce Holdings. His first post about her was a photo of her corner office door. My new boss is a nightmare. She rides my ass all day. Definitely punishing me for someone else’s sins. But I don’t tap out. The posts continued, standard office grievances, until mid-May. Well. Shit. I just slept with the boss. The post had over a hundred thousand likes from his obnoxious trust-fund circle. The comments were begging for details. I scrolled down until I found his reply. Worst luck ever. She got blackout drunk at a gala. I took her back to her penthouse, and she thought I was her boyfriend. I looked at the date on the post. My blood turned to freon. May 14th. The anniversary of my father’s death. Every year on May 14th, I shut my phone off. I sit in silence. I mourn the man they broke. And on that exact day, while I was drowning in grief over my father, Caroline was in her bed, tangled in the sheets with the son of the man who killed him. It was a surgical strike to my soul. With a morbid, masochistic drive, I kept scrolling. Turns out the Ice Queen is actually a softie. She’s literally knitting me a scarf while I watch the game. Mentioned offhand that I like Birds of Paradise. Came to her place today and she’d ripped out her entire greenhouse of stupid white flowers for me. Kinda touched. And then, the most recent post. Uploaded three hours ago. Boss lady ditched her 7-year anniversary to play video games with me at the Plaza. I think we know who’s winning this war. Some of the comments called him out, telling him he was trash for being the other man. Tristan had pinned a reply to the top. Who says I’m the other man? She just said yes. Attached was a photo. Caroline, looking breathtakingly flushed and happy, holding up her left hand. On her ring finger sat a massive pink diamond. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes locked onto the dress she was wearing in the photo. It was an emerald-green silk slip. I had designed it myself. I spent three months working with a tailor in Mayfair to get the draping perfect for her body. I gave it to her for our anniversary last year. She was wearing my love letter to her while accepting another man’s ring. The hotel walls began to close in. I gripped my chest as a visceral, agonizing panic attack ripped through me. I was drowning. The post went viral within his circles. Soon, my phone began to detonate. Calls from mutual friends. Some wanting gossip, some genuinely concerned. And then, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. I swiped to answer. “Nate,” her crisp, emotionless voice came through. “I assume you’ve seen the news about your brother and Caroline.” I said nothing. I let the silence hang. “Listen to me,” she continued, her tone patronizing. “People in our tax bracket don’t operate on fairy tales. Infidelity happens. I need you to be mature about this. Don’t spiral and make a mess of things like your father did—” “Do not put his name in your mouth,” I snarled, my voice vibrating with a rage so profound it scared me. She paused, clearly irritated. “I am calling to give you reality. The Brooks and Pierce families need this alliance. Since Caroline has chosen Tristan, I expect you to bow out gracefully. Don’t throw a tantrum and embarrass me in the press.” A dark, broken laugh scraped its way out of my throat. “Oh, now you care about being embarrassed? Where was that shame when you were driving my father to put a gun in his mouth?” Knowing she couldn’t win the moral high ground, she snapped, “That was between adults. It has nothing to do with you.” I hung up. I blocked her number. My screen was a chaotic mess of notifications. That blown-up photo of her engagement ring mocked me, painting me as the ultimate, castrated fool. Then, Caroline’s name flashed on the screen. One call. Two calls. Three. Frantic, back-to-back. I stared at the screen, swiped into my settings, and blocked her across every conceivable platform. I called my executive assistant in London. My flight back wasn’t until tomorrow, but I needed out of New York now. I booked a red-eye to Texas. Everyone always said I was exactly like my father. We shared the same quiet disposition, the same fierce loyalty. But they were wrong about one thing. I wasn’t going to die over a woman who betrayed me. At 4:00 PM, a frantic pounding echoed through my hotel room door. I opened it, and before I could blink, a body slammed into my chest. Caroline wrapped her arms around my neck, burying her face against my collarbone. She was trembling, her eyes red and swollen. “Why weren’t you answering?” she choked out, her voice ragged. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was? I thought something happened to you!” I stood entirely still. Slowly, mechanically, I peeled her arms off me and took a step back. “What is there left to answer?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly hollow. “Didn’t you just say yes to Tristan’s proposal?” She flinched as if I’d struck her. Panic flared in her eyes as she reached for my hand. “Nate, you have to understand. Tristan… his father was just a mistress. He grew up with nothing, no respect. I can’t let him live out his life without a proper title. I just—” She saw the utter revulsion in my eyes and switched tactics, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “The marriage laws are different in Europe, Nate. We can still be together. I’ll fly to London. We can have a private ceremony. We’ll still be legally married over there. You’ll still be my husband.” It was so absurd, so profoundly grotesque, I couldn’t even summon the energy to yell. I just stared at her. I was looking at a stranger. A monster wearing the skin of the girl I loved. Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Tristan skidded to a halt outside the door. He took one look at me, dropped to his knees, and put on a masterful theatrical display. “Nate, it’s my fault! Please, hate me, but don’t blame Caroline! I’m so sorry!” Looking down at his face—a younger, sharper version of the man who ruined my family—a primal, violent urge surged through me. I raised my fist. Caroline lunged forward, grabbing my arm with shocking strength. “Nate, stop! I’m the one who made the mistake, not him! Be rational!” My arm dropped. I looked at where her hands gripped my forearm, then slowly raised my eyes to hers. “You’re both at fault. But I’m the one bleeding. Tell me, Caroline. What exactly do you expect me to do?” Tears spilled over her lashes. Guilt and something akin to pity swam in her eyes. She squeezed my hand, practically begging. “Nate… for the sake of our seven years together. Please. Can you just find it in your heart to be forgiving?” I looked at her pleading face. I let the silence stretch until it was suffocating. Then, I gave a single, slow nod. Caroline gasped, a look of euphoric relief washing over her. She threw her arms around my torso. “I knew it,” she wept into my shirt. “I knew you were stronger than your father. I knew you would understand.” She used my dead father as a weapon to secure her own peace of mind. A chilling, terrifying calm settled over me. I smiled against the crown of her hair, my eyes dead. Suddenly, Tristan let out an exaggerated gasp, patting his pockets. “Oh no—Caroline, I think I left the security fob for the penthouse at the front desk.” Caroline pulled away instantly, wiping her eyes. She barely looked back at me as she took Tristan’s arm. “Let’s go get it. I’ll call you tonight, Nate,” she tossed over her shoulder. I watched them walk down the hall. As they turned the corner, the last miserable shred of love I harbored for Caroline Pierce evaporated into nothing. The next morning, I flew out. I didn’t go back to London. I had my security team intercept a police report of a horrific, fiery car crash on an isolated stretch of highway outside the city. Through a massive payout and some digital ghosting, my identification was planted at the scene. The only way to cleanly sever a tie this gangrenous was amputation. From today onward, Nathaniel Brooks no longer existed. It wasn’t until late that evening, after she had finished coddling Tristan, that Caroline remembered to call me. When it went straight to an automated dead line, she tried my London office. Then, starting to panic, she pulled strings to get an emergency contact at the American Embassy. “Nathaniel Brooks?” the official’s voice filtered through the line, solemn and apologetic. “Miss Pierce, I am so deeply sorry. Mr. Brooks was involved in a multi-vehicle collision early this morning on his way to the airport. There were no survivors.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400780”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It started with the color of my car. Back when it was wrapped in a soft, custom blush-pink, I was a target. Every morning on my commute, I was tailgated, brake-checked, and aggressively cut off. My husband told me I was a terrible driver. He told me I had a persecution complex. It wasn’t until I surrendered, taking the car into the shop and having it painted a standard, invisible corporate black, that the road rage miraculously stopped. Until the day my car was nearly run off the highway and into a ditch. That was the day I found out someone had posted about me on a local community board. The post claimed I was a homewrecker—the “commute work-wife” who was seducing her husband. The proof? A photo of my license plate. She claimed I intentionally followed her husband every single morning, that we coordinated our routes, that we stopped at the same drive-thru for coffee and breakfast. The comment section was a cesspool of vile, violent misogyny directed entirely at me. But I didn’t know this man. I had never spoken to him. Our only connection was that, by sheer geographic coincidence, we drove down the same stretch of Seattle interstate at the exact same time every morning. But the internet didn’t care about coincidence. And worse, my own family didn’t believe me. When they looked at me, they didn’t see a victim; they saw a liability. They cursed me out and turned their backs. Pushed to the absolute edge of my sanity, I finally broke. And then, I fought back. 1 The morning started like any other. I was merging onto the I-5 south, the sky a bruised, rainy gray. Just as I hit the mainline, a black Nissan swerved violently from the right lane, cutting the nose of my car so close I had to slam my foot onto the brake pedal. The seatbelt locked, biting hard into my collarbone. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” I screamed into the empty cabin, but the Nissan was already speeding away, weaving recklessly through the morning traffic. I gripped the steering wheel, forcing a deep breath into my lungs. Don’t engage, I told myself. Just let the idiots go. But less than a mile down the road, a white sedan aggressively squeezed in from my left blind spot, practically grazing my side mirror. I hit the brakes again. My head snapped back, nearly bouncing off the headrest. “Jesus Christ!” I watched the white sedan speed off, a heavy, suffocating knot forming in my chest. Ever since I bought this car, it felt like I was marked. First, it was the pink wrap. I was a young woman in a brightly colored car, which apparently meant I was open season for every ego-fragile driver on the road. At first, I was just angry. Why should I have to change? Why was I the one being bullied? But principle doesn’t protect you from a four-car pileup. For the sake of my own safety, I compromised. I painted over the pink I loved so much, settling for a glossy, anonymous black. It worked, for a while. The commute became boring again. But today? Today felt different. It felt coordinated. By the time I finally pulled into the parking garage beneath my office building, my hands were shaking. I put the car in park, leaned my head against the steering wheel, and took five slow, shuddering breaths just to get my heart rate down. The drive had felt like a survival mission. Because of the near-misses, I clocked in fifteen minutes late. The receptionist immediately flagged it. Valerie was the director of my department. From the day I was hired, she had looked at me like I was a stain on the carpet. I never knew why, and honestly, I never cared enough to ask. “Harper,” Valerie said, her voice dripping with that saccharine corporate condescension. “There are twenty-five people in this department. Funny how you’re the only one who couldn’t manage to get here on time.” “I kept getting cut off on the highway. Aggressively.” She offered a thin, mocking smile. “Funny how nobody else is getting cut off. Just you.” I didn’t answer. Because I wanted to know the answer, too. 2 When I got home, my husband, Derek, was already horizontal on the living room sofa, a gaming controller in his hands. From the kitchen, the heavy drone of the exhaust fan competed with the sound of his mother, Diane, clattering pots on the stove. I dropped my bag by the entryway, kicking off my heels. I walked over and sat on the edge of the sofa near his feet, desperate for a sliver of comfort. “God, my commute today was a nightmare. People kept trying to run me off the road.” He didn’t take his eyes off the TV screen. “Yeah.” I nudged his leg. “Are you even listening to me?” He finally shifted his gaze, though his thumbs kept working the joysticks. “I’m listening. You said people are cutting you off.” “Doesn’t that strike you as weird?” “What’s weird about it?” he sighed, his voice thick with boredom. “You’re a timid driver, Harper. You cruise in the passing lane, people are in a rush to get to work. Of course they’re gonna cut you off.” “It’s not my driving—” “Look,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening. “I drive that same highway and this never happens to me. You overthink everything. You always think the world is out to get you.” From the kitchen, Diane’s voice cut through the tension. “Derek! Dinner’s ready!” He paused his game, dropping the controller on the coffee table, and walked toward the smell of garlic and roasting meat. I stayed on the sofa, staring at the indentation he’d left in the cushions. A bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. This was his default setting. Every time I brought him a problem, it was somehow my fault. When I told him I felt excluded by my coworkers, he said I was being too sensitive. When I tried to explain how his mother’s passive-aggressive comments hurt me, he said I was being petty. Now, I was telling him I felt physically unsafe on the road, and it was just my “persecution complex.” Later, at the dinner table, I tried again. I recounted the near-accidents. Diane stopped chewing. She set her fork down and leveled a look at me. “Harper, honey, driving is all about mindset. If you go out there thinking everyone is out to get you, you’re going to drive nervously. And nervous drivers cause accidents. When you crash that car, the only person paying the deductible is going to be you.” “Diane, it’s not my mindset—” “Alright, alright, it’s not your mindset,” she waved her hand dismissively, picking up her fork again. “Just pay better attention out there. That’s all I’m saying.” I looked down at my plate. I didn’t say another word. 3 Over the next two weeks, it escalated. It wasn’t just getting cut off anymore. It was targeted harassment. I had to call the highway patrol twice, but without license plates, there was nothing they could do. But the most bizarre incident happened off the highway, on the suburban roads near my office. It involved a woman on a mint-green Vespa-style scooter. She looked to be in her early thirties, with a small child, maybe four or five, clinging to her waist on the back seat. She started appearing on my route. Sometimes she would dart out from a side street, forcing me to slam on the brakes. Other times, she would ride aggressively close to my rear bumper, leaning on her horn for blocks at a time. Then came a Tuesday. I was stopped at a red light. She pulled her scooter right up to the driver’s side of my car. She turned her head and looked me dead in the eye. Then, she hawked, and spit. A thick glob of saliva hit my driver’s side window. She screamed something muffled through the glass—a curse word, a slur, I couldn’t tell. I sat there, paralyzed. The light turned green. She revved the scooter and sped off. My first instinct was to floor the gas, chase her down, and demand to know what the hell her problem was. But a glance in my rearview mirror showed a line of angry cars piling up behind me. I had no choice but to press the accelerator and keep moving forward. That night, the second I walked through the door, I told Derek. “A woman on a scooter literally spit on my car today!” Derek was watching a basketball game. He didn’t even turn his head. “You probably saw it wrong,” he said flatly. “Who the hell is going around spitting on cars?” “I didn’t see it wrong, Derek. She looked right at me and—” “Enough, Harper,” he snapped, finally turning to face me. His features were twisted in overt irritation. “What is going on with you lately? Every day you come home with some new manufactured drama. People cutting you off, your boss hating you, now a mother on a moped is targeting you? Who do you think you are? Do you honestly think the entire universe revolves around you?” I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. Because a tiny, insidious part of me wondered if he was right. Why me? Why is it always me? I could chalk up the aggressive cars to men hating female drivers. But the woman on the scooter? With her child? I didn’t sleep a single minute that night. 4 Friday was my flex day off. Late morning, I went to the local Whole Foods. It was quiet, just a few people scattered in the checkout lanes. I was standing at the end of a line of three, leaning heavily against the handle of my shopping cart, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. The two women in front of me were talking loudly. “Did you see that thread? On the community Facebook page?” “Oh my god, yes. The homewrecker one, right? Somebody actually doxxed her license plate. I memorized it, just in case I ever see her out and about.” “I saved the post. Honestly, women like that? If I see her, I’ll key her car myself.” I kept my eyes on my phone. I didn’t really care. The internet was a toxic place; someone was always getting dragged for something. “The mistress drives a black Golf,” the first woman continued. “Washington plates. It starts with…” My thumb froze on my screen. That was my plate number. I slowly raised my head, staring at the backs of the two women. They were still gossiping, their voices carrying easily over the hum of the grocery store refrigerators. “What goes through a woman’s head? She knows the guy is married and she still throws herself at him.” “She’s a slut, that’s what goes through her head.” “The husband is an idiot, too. Parading her around right under his wife’s nose.” “Ha! Maybe they’re into that. Maybe the husband and the mistress are laughing about it.” I stood perfectly still. The canvas tote bags in my cart suddenly looked incredibly heavy. The line moved up. The cashier called, “Next in line, please.” I pushed my cart forward like a machine. I placed my groceries on the belt like a machine. I tapped my credit card on the reader like a machine. The moment I got home, I threw the groceries on the counter, practically sprinted to my laptop, and opened the local community forum. Right at the top of the page, pinned and trending, was a thread. The title was bolded in stark black text: [VENT] My husband is sleeping with his “commute buddy”. What do I do? I clicked on it. The post was massive. The original poster had written it with the dramatic flair of a cheap romance novelist. “I’ve been married to my husband for five years. We have a three-year-old. My husband is just a normal guy. He commutes down I-5 every morning. A few months ago, a mutual friend dropped a hint that my husband was driving to work with another woman every single day. That they were grabbing coffee together. When I confronted him, he played it off. Said she was just a ‘commute buddy.’ That they just happened to drive the same route and it was harmless. So, I played detective. I followed him one morning. I watched his car pull up next to a black Golf by a coffee stand. I saw the woman inside. I saw the way she looked at him. She was smiling. That specific, sickening smile a woman only uses when she knows she has another woman’s husband wrapped around her finger. I knew right then. It wasn’t a coincidence. They were planning this.” I stared at the screen, a high-pitched ringing starting in my ears. I scrolled down. Page after page of comments. I hit page five. “OP, do you know the homewrecker’s name?” The original poster replied: “No. I just know she drives a black Golf. Here is her license plate.” The replies came flooding in: “Got the plate! Let’s go to work, ladies!” “I have a friend who runs background checks at a dealership. Give me five minutes.” I kept scrolling. My vision blurred. Page eight. Someone had uploaded a photo. It was me. Taken at a Chevron gas station. I was pumping gas, looking down at my phone. The lighting was perfect; my face was entirely recognizable.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400779”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The pain was a living, breathing thing inside me. By the time my water broke and they rushed me into the maternity ward, I was already dilated to ten centimeters. My body was screaming, violently urging me to push. But my husband, Harry, refused to let me into the delivery room. “Let me push,” I sobbed, my fingers clawing at the sterile hospital sheets. “Harry, please! If I hold him in any longer, he’s going to die!” He just smiled, a terrifyingly calm expression on his face, and smoothed the damp hair away from my forehead. His eyes were dark with an unshakable, irrational stubbornness. “Just hold on a little longer, Maddie. Once we pass midnight, the moon shifts into a new astrological house. Bella’s spiritual guide was very clear—any birth before midnight carries a karmic weight that will directly clash with her aura.” He wiped a tear from my cheek. “We can’t let our baby’s arrival destroy Bella’s energy. She’s already so fragile.” I opened my mouth to scream at him, to tell him he was out of his mind, but a brutal, primal contraction ripped through me. I could feel the baby’s head instinctively crowning, fighting to enter the world. Harry’s face tightened. Without a second thought, he pressed his hand hard against me, physically trying to halt the birth. The white-hot, tearing agony of it knocked the wind out of my lungs. The world went black at the edges. And in that hazy, suffocating space between consciousness and pain, my heart quietly gave out. Seven years of loving him from afar. Three years of marriage. It had all culminated in this sickening joke. … “If this continues, we aren’t just going to lose the baby. We’re going to lose the mother.” The attending obstetrician couldn’t hide her horror, muttering the words as she hovered helplessly near the bed. Harry’s brow furrowed at the comment. I felt a weak, frantic kick against my ribs. It was my baby, fighting for his life. I forced my heavy head up and stared at the man I had married. “Harry… he can’t wait until midnight. This is your son! How can you risk our baby’s life over a pseudo-spiritual delusion? Over Bella’s energy?” Before I could finish, Harry cut me off, his voice clipped and cold. “Bella doesn’t joke about karma. She’s been through hell. You and the baby just need to endure it for another hour. Be reasonable, Maddie. He’s been in there for nine months. What’s another hour?” He gestured vaguely around the room. “I’ve got the best medical team in the state standing by. Nothing is going to happen to either of you.” He spoke with such absolute, arrogant certainty, completely dismissing the doctor’s warning. It hadn’t always been like this. When I first found out I was pregnant, Harry had been a nervous wreck. If I so much as winced, he was on the phone with the doctor. He had an entire folder on his phone dedicated to pregnancy dietary restrictions, terrified of missing a single detail. But everything changed the day Isabella Montgomery returned to the States. She was the ghost that haunted our marriage—the untouchable first love. Harry’s mother had chased her off years ago, and out of spite, Bella had run off to Europe and married a wealthy tech investor. But the marriage was abusive. She returned a shattered woman, filing for divorce and bringing her trauma straight to Harry’s doorstep. He blamed himself. He believed that if he had fought harder for her back then, she wouldn’t have suffered. He owed her a debt, and he was using my life to pay it. The day we were supposed to take our maternity photos, Bella had looked at the proofs and whispered, “I’m so jealous.” The very next day, Harry canceled on me to take her to a private studio, re-creating the bridal portraits she claimed her ex-husband had ruined. When I had my gestational diabetes test, the clinic advised bringing someone in case I felt faint. Bella called him away twenty minutes before my appointment because she’d scraped her knee at a yoga retreat. I knew it was his guilt talking. I knew he felt responsible for her. I had naively bet everything on this baby, hoping that once our son was born, Harry would remember the life we were building. But now, because of Bella’s obsession with a holistic psychic, he was trading our son’s life for her peace of mind. A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. Inside me, the frantic movements grew weaker. I swallowed the bitter bile rising in my throat and looked into Harry’s eyes. “He is suffocating in there. If you let me have him… I swear, I’ll take him and leave. You’ll never have to see us again. We won’t be in your way, or Bella’s. Just… please.” Harry’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth, but a soft, trembling voice beat him to it. “Harry.” Bella stepped out from the shadows of the VIP suite, looking small and deeply wounded. “I didn’t come back to tear your family apart.” She looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Maybe you should just let Maddie push. The psychic might be wrong. And even if she’s right, and the baby’s karmic entry destroys my recovery… it’s fine. I can take it.” Without hesitation, Harry pulled her into his arms, oblivious to the blood and fluid soaking my sheets. “Stop talking like that. I promised I would protect you.” Tears burned my eyes, hot and humiliating. Suddenly, a tearing, catastrophic pain ripped through my lower abdomen. The monitors erupted into a chaotic symphony of alarms. The obstetrician rushed forward, her face draining of color. “We are out of time! The amniotic fluid is nearly gone. The fetus is experiencing severe deceleration. We have to move her to the OR for an emergency C-section, now!” Harry shot a lethal look at the door. Instantly, three men from his private security detail stepped in front of the exit, forming a human wall. The medical staff froze. The boldest nurse among them stepped forward, her voice shaking. “Mr. Cole, please! The baby’s heart rate is dropping. We can still save him if we go now!” One of the security guards, eager to earn his paycheck, sneered. “Mr. Cole is the primary benefactor of this hospital’s new wing. You touch that bed without his permission, and you’ll all be blacklisted from every medical facility on the West Coast.” The threat hung in the sterile air. The doctors’ knuckles turned white as they gripped the bed rails, trading helpless, devastated looks before turning their guilt-ridden eyes to me. With the last ounce of strength in my body, I dragged myself off the bed. My knees hit the cold linoleum with a sickening thud, landing right at Harry’s feet. “I am begging you,” I gasped, blood running down my thighs. “Save him.” Harry flinched, clearly unnerved to see me kneeling in a pool of my own blood. Sensing the shift in his demeanor, Bella tightened her grip on his shirt. “Harry, just let her do it. We can just… avoid each other in the future so our energies don’t cross.” Harry knelt and tried to guide me back to the bed. He placed a warm hand on my agonizingly tight stomach, patting it softly, just like he had done a thousand times in the dark of our bedroom. “Just hold on, Maddie. You and the baby, just wait a little longer for me. Okay?” “Wait?” My voice was a hollow rasp. “Wait using my son’s life as the currency?” I shoved him away with a feral burst of adrenaline. My hand found the heavy glass water pitcher on the bedside table. With a scream that tore my throat raw, I hurled it at him. Bella shrieked, throwing herself in front of him. “Harry, watch out!” The heavy glass grazed her cheekbone before shattering against the wall. A thin, superficial line of red bloomed on her skin. She pressed a hand to her cheek, collapsing weakly against his chest. “Harry… it hurts.” Harry caught her. When he looked up at me, his eyes were devoid of anything human. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Madeline?” I slumped against the mattress, feeling the terrifying stillness in my womb. The frantic kicks had stopped. The struggle was over. “I’m out of my mind?” My voice cracked, dry as ash. “Harry… he’s gone. He stopped moving.” He didn’t even look at my stomach. His eyes were locked on the tiny scratch on Bella’s porcelain face. “Bella said we wait until midnight,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Stop being hysterical. Bella’s injured now, and it’s entirely because your toxic energy is already trying to push the baby out early…” He turned his back on me, addressing his guards. “Keep an eye on my wife. No one moves her into the OR until the clock strikes twelve.” “Yes, sir.” He scooped Bella up into his arms, glaring furiously at the frozen medical staff. “What the hell are you standing around for? Do you not see the blood on her face? Get a plastic surgeon down here immediately. She can’t have a scar. She hates scars.” Within seconds, the room emptied out, leaving only the stoic guards and two weeping nurses. I stared numbly at the digital clock on the wall. 11:59. 12:00. The nurses finally surged forward, desperately wheeling my bed down the hall toward the OR. But it was chaos. “Where is the surgeon?!” a nurse screamed. “They were all pulled to the VIP wing!” “The fetal heartbeat is gone! We’re losing the mother, she’s hemorrhaging!” “Are you kidding me?!” another nurse sobbed. “That woman had a paper cut on her face, and they pulled the entire obstetrics team?!” “Tell Mr. Cole! His wife is bleeding out!” I listened to their panicked shouts, feeling the cold seep into my bones. Any lingering hope, any shred of love I had left for Harry Cole, bled out of me onto those hospital sheets. I closed my eyes, and let the darkness take me. When I finally drifted back to consciousness, the world felt distorted. I was lying on the hardwood floor in the foyer of Harry’s sprawling estate. Beneath me, the floor was littered with shattered glass from a broken vase. From the living room, the faint, melodic sound of Bella’s laughter drifted through the air, mingling with Harry’s low voice. I tried to push myself up, but my palms pressed into the shards. I looked down. My hands and forearms were covered in tiny, weeping lacerations. Pieces of glass were embedded in my skin. I didn’t care. I felt absolutely nothing. There was only one thought pulsing in my hollow, aching brain. “My baby…” My voice sounded like dry leaves scraping against stone. “Where is my baby?” I dragged myself toward the living room. Harry stood near the fireplace. When he saw me—a ghost of a woman, soaked in dried blood and shivering—a flicker of something dark and unreadable crossed his eyes. But then he glanced at Bella, who was sitting on the sofa with a microscopic bandage on her cheek, and his expression hardened into ice. “You really crossed the line this time, Maddie,” he said coldly. “Having the nurses scream for the doctors while Bella was getting treated? You traumatized her.” He pointed to the floor in front of the sofa. “Walk over there and apologize to her. Once you do, we’ll put this behind us.” I stared at him. This man, whom I had loved in secret for seven years, whom I had built a home with for three. He was a complete stranger. The agonizing pain of the glass in my flesh was a fraction of the agony in my chest. “You’re right. I made a mistake.” I swayed on my feet. “My mistake was ever marrying you.” I held out my bleeding hand. “Give me my son. And then I want a divorce.” Harry’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. “The baby… was a stillbirth.” A high-pitched ringing erupted in my ears. “What did you say?” “He was gone before he was born.” “You’re lying!” I screamed, my voice shattering the quiet elegance of the room. “You’re lying!” “I’m not.” My entire body began to violently shake. “No… no…” “Maddie, don’t let grief make you irrational.” Harry took a step toward me, reaching out to steady me. I slapped his hand away with a viciousness that startled him. Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “We can always have another one. Honestly, given how deeply this pregnancy clashed with Bella’s aura, he likely would have had severe health issues anyway. Once you recover, we can try again. You can have as many kids as you want.” I stared at him. And then, a broken, breathless laugh bubbled up from my throat. I laughed until the tears carved tracks through the grime on my face. “I don’t want another child. I want him. Give me my son’s body, Harry.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was dealing with an unruly toddler. “Madeline, calm down—” “I am calm!” I shrieked. “Where is my baby?!” He looked away, staring at the manicured lawns outside the window. “I already gave the remains to Bella. Don’t worry about it.” I froze. The air left the room. “Why,” I whispered, the words trembling, “would you give my dead child to Isabella?” “Because his karmic energy is what caused the complications,” Harry said, his tone infuriatingly measured. “You can’t just bury something like that in a normal cemetery. Bella consulted her spiritual guide. They have a holistic way of cleansing his spirit before returning him to the earth.” Bella looked at me with wide, sympathetic eyes that couldn’t quite mask the sick, triumphant gleam beneath them. “Maddie, I really hated to do this. But the guide said your baby held a lot of resentment. If we didn’t perform the release ritual, my trauma recovery would completely regress—” “Shut your mouth!” I roared. “What gives you the right to touch my child?!” Bella shrank back against the cushions. Harry instantly stepped in front of her, shielding her. “That is enough!” His voice cracked like a whip. “The baby is gone, Madeline! What exactly is this performance going to achieve?” My heart was already a graveyard, but watching him protect her still managed to twist the knife deeper. “A performance?” I laughed again, a wet, ragged sound. “Harry, that was your flesh and blood. Your son.” “I know that,” he snapped. “But he’s gone. Did you want Bella to be dragged down into the dark with him?!” He’s gone. The words anchored me to the floor. I turned on my heel and walked up the sweeping staircase, leaving bloody footprints on the pristine carpet. I walked into the nursery. The room I had spent months perfecting. Cream-colored wainscoting. A handmade oak crib. A closet full of tiny, perfectly folded clothes. I opened the dresser drawers. I pulled out the onesies. The tiny socks. The knit beanies. I had picked out every single piece with Harry. He used to laugh and say, “I’m going to give this kid the entire world.” Now, his son was dead, and he didn’t even flinch. I gathered the clothes into a massive pile, dragged them out to the upstairs landing, and flicked my lighter. I dropped the flame onto the cotton. “Madeline, what the hell are you doing?!” Harry’s voice roared from the bottom of the stairs. I ignored him, tossing more clothes into the growing blaze. The fire leaped up, casting an orange glow against the walls, illuminating the tiny embroidered bears and stars. “She’s psychotic! She’s trying to burn the house down!” Bella screamed in terror. Harry took the stairs two at a time, tackling me to the floor and ripping the lighter from my bloody hands. The unburned clothes scattered across the hardwood. Harry looked at the tiny, singed socks, and for a fraction of a second, his face went pale. His voice softened. “Maddie… please. He’s gone. Bella’s psychic said the next baby will perfectly align with our lives. When that happens—” I looked up at him with dead, hollow eyes. “There will be no next baby. I am divorcing you. Now, give me back my son.” “I am not signing divorce papers,” Harry said firmly. Bella peeked out from behind him, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “Maddie, don’t use the D-word just to manipulate him. It’s not like you can’t have the baby back.” My head snapped up. She smiled, a tiny, venomous curve of her lips. “Since the dark energy originated in your womb, the guide said you can absorb the karmic backlash yourself. If you do the Penance Trail, you can take the remains.” “Fine,” I said instantly, without a second of hesitation. “Tell me what to do.” “You have to walk the gravel trail up to the sanctuary in Sedona. Barefoot. And to show true submission to the universe, you have to drop to your bare knees every three steps until you reach the altar.” “Done.” I stood up and stumbled past them, heading straight for the door. Harry caught my arm, his eyes lingering on my blood-soaked hospital gown. A flicker of real hesitation crossed his face. “Maddie, don’t do this. The baby is already dead, why would you torture yourself—” I didn’t look back. I just pulled my arm free and said, “He may be dead, but he is still my son. And I am bringing him home.” The sun in the high desert was merciless, beating down on my back like a hammer. Every third step. Drop to the knees. The jagged, unpaved gravel of the sanctuary trail tore through my thin hospital gown in minutes. The skin on my knees flayed open, leaving bright red streaks of blood on the white stones behind me. Tourists and wealthy retreat guests paused on the path, pointing and whispering. “What kind of cult is this?” “My god, look at her legs…” Harry walked parallel to me on the smooth grass, holding a UV-protection umbrella over Bella. I saw the muscle in his jaw ticking. I saw the sickening flash of pity in his eyes. “Harry,” Bella murmured softly, leaning against him. “Maybe we should just give it to her. If her bad karma bounces back onto me, you’ll just have to plan my funeral, that’s all.” Harry was quiet for a long, suffocating moment. “She chose to walk,” he said tightly. “Let her walk.” I don’t know how many hours passed. By the time I reached the wooden gates of the hilltop sanctuary, I was operating on nothing but the primal, animal instinct of a mother. Bella stood by the altar, holding a small, linen-wrapped bundle. Harry stood beside her. “You made it,” Bella smiled, holding out a ceremonial slip of paper and a lighter. “You just need to burn the release cipher at the altar, and he’s yours.” I ignored her fake, cloying tone. I dragged my bleeding legs to the altar, took the paper, and tried to flick the lighter. My hands were trembling so violently, slick with my own blood and sweat, that the spark wouldn’t catch. Over and over, my thumb slipped. “Oh, no,” Bella sighed in mock despair. “The universe won’t let it light. The karma is too dark. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.” She looked down at the bundle. “You know the concept of ‘dust to dust,’ right, Maddie? The sanctuary has a wild nature preserve out back. Leaving him to the earth… it’s the ultimate mercy.” A bomb went off in my brain. She wanted to throw my baby’s body to the wild animals. With a guttural, feral scream, I lunged forward and ripped the bundle from her arms. Caught off guard, Bella stumbled backward, twisting her ankle and falling to the dirt. “Get the bundle back!” Harry roared. Two of his massive private security guards descended on me, tackling me to the earth and pinning my arms behind my back. One of them snatched the linen bundle from my chest. “Madeline, why can’t you just listen?” Harry knelt in the dirt, looking into my manic, tear-streaked face. “Once the energy is cleared, I’ll pay for a proper memorial. Okay? We’ll have another baby. We can have a whole soccer team of kids.” He sounded so gentle. Like he was soothing a petulant child. “I don’t want another baby!” I thrashed wildly against the guards. “I want him!” “Stop being dramatic,” Bella sniffled, letting Harry pull her to her feet. “Just leave the remains in the preserve. The owner keeps a Cane Corso back there to guard the grounds. Let nature take its course.” Harry scooped Bella up into his arms. He nodded at the guard holding my son. “Take it out back.” He looked down at me one last time, his voice a soft, suffocating blanket. “Just stay here, Maddie. Don’t watch. You’ll only upset yourself.” As the guard walked toward the heavy iron gates of the preserve, the men holding me let go. I didn’t hesitate. I scrambled to my feet and ran, tearing after the guard like a madwoman. He unlatched the gate and tossed the linen bundle into the tall grass. A massive, muscular black dog—150 pounds of pure aggression—charged out from the brush, zeroing in on the bundle. Without a single thought, I threw my body over the linen. The dog, thinking I was stealing its kill, lunged. Its jaws clamped down around my throat. As the hot spray of my own blood hit my face, the last thing I heard was Harry Cole screaming my name with a sound that tore the sky in half. “Maddie—!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400778”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On New Year’s Day, I was sitting in a sterile hospital room, a ballpoint pen hovering over the voluntary organ donation form. Just as I was about to press the nib to the paper, a cold, synthesized voice echoed in my mind: [Hello, Host. I am your Year-End Wrap-Up System. Preparing your 2025 Journey in Review…] [This year marks the 20th anniversary of the day your adoptive mother stole you.] My brain went completely numb. The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. The surgeon was staring at me, waiting for the signature that would give my mother—the woman currently dying of kidney failure—one of mine. But my hand froze. I was exactly twenty years old. If the woman in that hospital bed wasn’t my mother, who was? The voice continued, indifferent to my internal collapse. [This year, you spent 301 days caring for an adoptive mother who was faking her symptoms. You are currently one surgery away from the morgue.] [Family comes in many forms, but yours is a “limited edition.” You have only crossed paths with your biological mother, the tech mogul Cynthia Montgomery, three times this year. Your most recent encounter was sixty seconds ago in the hallway.] I whipped my head around. Through the glass window of the door, I caught a glimpse of a woman in a sharp, charcoal-grey power suit walking briskly toward the exit. It was Cynthia Montgomery—the CEO of Montgomery Global, the richest woman in the state. 1. Even on New Year’s Day, Cynthia was the personification of “the grind,” likely here on a PR-mandated hospital visit. I turned my head back quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs. What is this? Some “Secret Heiress” delusion? Am I so terrified of the surgery that I’m hallucinating? I looked at the woman in the bed. Martha had raised me for twenty years. She was my mother. How could I even think of backing out now? I’ll check myself into the psych ward after the surgery, I told myself. I tried to blame the pressure, but the voice wouldn’t stop. [Achievement Unlocked: The Human Fountain.] [You donated blood twice this year—400cc of Type AB. You are officially the #1 contributor to your family’s medical needs.] [As the only person in your household with Type AB blood, your kindness is about to reboot a stranger’s life…] I froze. “The only one with Type AB? But when my mom had those accidents—” My mind went blank. I remembered the cold needles, the vials of my blood being rushed away, and Martha’s miraculous recoveries. I looked at Martha. She was pale, coughing weakly, the picture of a woman at death’s door. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember actually seeing her injuries during those two car accidents—accidents that had conveniently happened right when I was up for major promotions at my internship. The surgeon, Dr. Lowman, tapped the desk impatiently. “Miss Miller? Is there a problem?” Martha turned her head, her eyes watery and pathetic. “Jade, honey… are you scared? It’s okay. Mom can wait a few more days.” She was always so “understanding.” “After the surgery, I’ll have your grandparents look after me for a while. I don’t want to burden you or make you watch me recover. You just focus on resting, okay?” [Meeting is better than parting. This is your 3rd meeting this year with this bribed physician. It is also your final meeting before your ‘accidental’ death on the operating table.] I looked at Dr. Lowman. There was a subtle flicker of something in his eyes—not compassion, but calculation. I stood up so fast the chair screeched against the linoleum. “I have to go. I’m not signing this yet!” The room went silent. My grandparents, who had been hovering by the door, stared at me in shock. I had been the “perfect daughter” for two decades—the one who sent every cent of my scholarship money home, the one who worked three jobs to pay Martha’s “medical bills.” Martha’s face hardened for a split second before the mask of the doting mother slid back on. “Jade? What are you saying? This isn’t a joke. If you’re worried about the recovery, the doctor is right here…” [Your biological mother, Cynthia Montgomery, and her daughter, Brooke, checked 8 countries off their bucket list this year. They have one more trip planned…] [This is Cynthia’s last day in the country. Tomorrow, she is moving abroad permanently to seek ‘specialized treatment’ for Brooke. Congratulations! You have a truly great biological mother—she just doesn’t know you exist.] “The surgery is off. I need to leave,” I snapped. I didn’t care if the voice was real or a schizophrenic break. If it was a choice between my life and a lie, I was choosing my life. Just then, the door pushed open. A girl about my age walked in, trailing behind Cynthia’s assistants. Dr. Lowman’s posture shifted instantly. “Miss Montgomery,” he said, his voice dripping with respect. Brooke Montgomery. The girl who had lived my life. She looked at me, her eyes widening in a flash of recognition that she quickly masked with a patronizing smile. “Oh, are you here for your mother’s treatment? How sweet. Kidney failure is so tragic, but luckily, a transplant solves everything, right?” My blood ran cold. I don’t look like Martha. My grandfather used to beat Martha for it, accusing her of bringing home someone else’s brat. But Brooke? Brooke looked exactly like a younger version of the woman who had raised me. And Brooke knew exactly who I was. She knew my last name. She knew Martha’s “diagnosis.” She was here to make sure the “trash” was disposed of. My grandfather lunged forward, his face purple with rage. “Jade! You selfish little bitch! You’re going to let your mother die because you’re scared of a little scar?” “She worked herself to the bone for you!” my grandmother wailed. “Every time she was in an accident, did you come to the room? No! You were too busy ‘working,’ while she sat there crying for you! You should be more like Miss Montgomery here—look how much she cares about people!” My grandfather grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You’re giving her that kidney today, or you’re dead to this family!” 2. The commotion drew a crowd in the hallway. Neighbors from our old apartment complex, who happened to be at the hospital, started whispering. “Isn’t that the Miller girl? I heard she’s a total gold-digger. Her mom was in the ICU twice and she never even showed up. Just kept demanding her mom send her money for ‘tuition’ while she was out partying.” “I thought she was a straight-A student, but she’s just a narcissist. Poor Martha, raising a snake like that.” The whispers cut deep. For years, I had stayed out of the hospital rooms because Martha begged me not to see her like that. I had worked until my hands bled to send money home, only to have it twisted into this narrative. [Your 2025 Keyword is: “LIE.” Did you find the truth hidden beneath the surface this year?] [This has been your keyword for three years running. Your adoptive mother and her daughter, Brooke, have been the primary contributors to this trend.] Martha reached out, clutching my sleeve, her voice loud enough for the onlookers to hear. “Everyone, please, don’t be hard on her. Jade is just young. She’s scared. She’ll do the right thing for her mother.” I looked at Brooke. She was smirking. That was the breaking point. I ripped my arm away from Martha. “I’m not giving you a damn thing! I’m not your daughter! You stole me from the hospital twenty years ago! Why would I give a kidney to a kidnapper?” The word kidnapper hit the room like a grenade. Brooke’s face went deathly pale. “What are you talking about?” she shrieked, her voice high and panicked. “Miss Miller, just because you’re a coward doesn’t mean you can make up disgusting lies about your own mother!” Martha clutched her chest, gasping for air. “Jade… how could you? I’m your mother! Doctor! Doctor, she’s having a psychotic break! She’s dangerous!” My grandfather swung a plastic ‘Caution’ sign at me. “You ungrateful brat! I’ll knock some sense into you!” The crowd jeered. “To save herself a surgery, she’ll even claim she’s kidnapped! How low can you go?” I didn’t answer. I threw the pen on the floor and tried to bolt, but two orderlies blocked the door. Martha lunged at me, pulling me back into the room. She leaned into my ear, her voice a low, venomous hiss I’d never heard before. “I don’t know how much you think you know, but once you’re on that table, your ‘secrets’ are going to rot in a grave.” The sheer malice in her voice sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t a mother. This was a predator. At the end of the hallway, I saw Cynthia Montgomery’s silhouette. She was inches from the exit. I used every ounce of strength I had, stomped on Martha’s foot, and sprinted out of the room. “Mrs. Montgomery! Cynthia! Help me!” Her security detail immediately stepped in, a wall of muscle blocking my path. “Stay back, ma’am. Mrs. Montgomery is busy.” Cynthia turned around, her brow furrowed in annoyance. There was no warmth in her eyes, only the cold irritation of a woman whose schedule had been interrupted. “Handle it,” she said to her assistant. “Don’t let her disturb the other patients.” She turned back to the door, ready to vanish from my life forever. [Perhaps it’s a mother’s intuition. Cynthia Montgomery’s 2025 Keyword is also “LIE.” Source: Brooke.] [What happens when a woman who hates being deceived discovers she’s been raising a cuckoo in the nest?] The system’s words gave me a surge of adrenaline. I dove past the assistant and grabbed Cynthia’s arm. Martha and Brooke were right behind me. The hospital security guards tackled me, pinning me to the floor with a tactical restraint. My grandfather was panting, apologizing profusely. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Montgomery! My granddaughter… she’s lost her mind. She’s delusional!” Martha was nodding frantically, her face a mask of tragedy. “She’s sick, Mrs. Montgomery. We’re taking her to the psych ward immediately. She won’t bother you again!” Brooke tucked her arm into Cynthia’s, playing the role of the devoted, frightened daughter. “Mom, let’s just go. This is scary.” Cynthia looked at Brooke with a softened expression, then turned to me. Her face hardened into a mask of pure disgust. She pulled her arm away from my touch as if I were a leper. “Do people think they can just harass me for a payout now? Security, get her out of my sight.” The guard slammed my head against the cold tile. I was bruised, bleeding, and utterly humiliated. But as Cynthia took a step away, I screamed at the top of my lungs: “Cynthia! I have the XM genetic marker! Ask Brooke if she has it!” 3. The name of the disorder stopped Cynthia in her tracks. She turned around slowly, her eyes like daggers. “What did you just say?” her voice was a low vibration that silenced the entire hallway. “I said… I’m your daughter,” I gasped, blood copper-tasting in my mouth. “Twenty years ago, Martha Miller swapped us in the nursery.” Cynthia laughed, but it was a sound devoid of humor. The crowd whispered. “She’s insane. Everyone knows the Montgomery baby was under 24-hour private security. A swap is impossible. She just signed her own death warrant.” [You were betrayed by ‘family’ 15 times this year, yet you still landed that high-paying internship on your own merit. Congratulations.] [Like mother, like daughter. Cynthia Montgomery handled 52 messes for Brooke this year, neutralized 3 corporate betrayals, and eliminated 6 threats to her legacy.] [She has zero tolerance for people who play the ‘family card’ to manipulate her.] “You’d invent a fairy tale just to avoid a surgery?” Cynthia walked toward me, the click of her heels sounding like a countdown. “Apologize. Now.” Martha pounced on me, pinching my arm so hard her nails drew blood. “Apologize to Mrs. Montgomery! Tell her you’re crazy! Tell her you’re a liar!” Martha was shaking. She knew the clock was ticking. She knew that if Cynthia even looked too closely at the timeline, the whole house of cards would collapse. I swallowed the blood in my mouth and stared directly into Cynthia’s cold, grey eyes—eyes that matched mine perfectly beneath the fluorescent lights. “Mrs. Montgomery, XM is a matrilineal genetic condition. It has an 80% inheritance rate. I have it. Does Brooke?” Cynthia’s expression didn’t change, but I saw her pupils dilate. It was a secret she had kept for decades—a rare, non-fatal but incurable condition that only the Montgomery women carried. Brooke’s eyes darted around in panic. “A genetic disorder? Anyone can look up a medical term online! You’re pathetic!” She gripped Cynthia’s arm tighter. “Mom, don’t listen to her. She’s just a con artist!” Cynthia’s gaze remained fixed on me. She slowly uncoupled Brooke’s hand from her arm. “Get the mobile DNA kit from the car,” she told her assistant, her voice like ice. “The rapid-sequencer we just acquired.” Then she looked down at me. “If you are lying, I will sue you for every breath you take. I will make sure you spend the rest of your life in a cage.” Martha let out a strangled cry. “Mrs. Montgomery, please! This is a hospital, it’s New Year’s, it’s bad luck to draw blood like this—” “I decide what’s lucky,” Cynthia snapped. [The old year is gone, a new one begins. Your Year-End System is with you through every season.] The kit was brought in. A technician in a white coat sanitized my arm, the needle sliding into my vein. On the other side of the hallway, Cynthia held out her arm without blinking. [January 1st, 2026. This is your first blood draw of the year. You are ahead of 98.1% of the population. You are one step closer to your real family.] Beep. The technician looked at the screen. His voice was flat. “Results are in… Genetic similarity: 0.0%. No biological relationship found.” “No… that’s impossible,” I whispered. The crowd exhaled in a collective wave of mockery. “Told you. She’s a nutjob.” “Real life isn’t a soap opera, honey.” Brooke’s face transformed. The fear vanished, replaced by a triumphant, ugly sneer. She walked over to me while I was still pinned to the floor and ground her designer heel into my arm, right over the puncture wound. “You had your shot, and you missed, you freak. Did you really think you could steal my life?” I screamed in pain as blood soaked through my sleeve. I called out to the system in my head, but the voice was cold: [Identification Failed. System will now initiate auto-delete sequence. Thank you for your 20-year trial.] [Better luck in the next life.] I felt the world go dark. My heart felt like it was stopping. Martha was bowing and scraping to Cynthia. “I am so sorry! Please, do whatever you want with her! We won’t say a word!” But Cynthia Montgomery didn’t leave. She looked at the technician, then at the screen, and then she smiled. It was the most terrifying smile I had ever seen. She signaled her guards, but not to take me away. They lunged for the technician instead, slamming him against the wall. “Don’t bother checking the results,” Cynthia announced, her voice ringing through the hall. “She’s my daughter.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400777”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother always had a sick fascination with practical jokes, entirely oblivious to time, place, or collateral damage. At my daughter’s first birthday party, she slammed a forged paternity test onto the banquet table and sobbed a river of crocodile tears to my husband. “I know my daughter made a fool of you. I know she let you raise another man’s bastard,” she wailed, her voice echoing through the silent room. “But she promised me she’d change! Please, just give her a chance!” Our friends and family froze. The air left the room. I scrambled to explain, begging anyone to listen, but who questions the tearful confession of a biological mother? Who assumes a grandmother would manufacture such a devastating lie about her own flesh and blood? My husband, completely shattered by the sheer weight of the public humiliation and the betrayal he thought was real, broke down. The pain in his eyes was something I will never forget. Before anyone could stop him, he stepped out onto the hotel balcony. And he let go. When the screams started and the reality of a dead body on the pavement set in, my mother offered a pathetic, watery shrug. “I was just pulling a prank,” she murmured, wiping her eyes. “How was I supposed to know he’d take it so seriously?” My father and brother, standing on the periphery, scoffed. “If he jumped, he must have already suspected you,” my father sneered. “Exactly,” my brother chimed in. “If you weren’t such a slut, Harper, a joke like that wouldn’t have landed.” Suffocating under the weight of my in-laws’ agonizing screams and the disgusted glares of everyone I loved, I backed away. My heel caught the edge of the threshold. I tumbled over the railing, falling into the exact same abyss that had just swallowed my husband. Given a second chance, I decided it was time my mother learned the punchline to her own joke. 1 A sharp, breathless wail ripped me from the dark. I bolted upright, my chest heaving, staring blankly at the crib where my daughter was crying. Beside me, Nathan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He didn’t hesitate. He slid out of bed, his broad shoulders casting a warm shadow in the dim light, and scooped Mia up, swaying gently. He turned his head and gave me that soft, lopsided smile that always made my heart ache. “She’s just fussy tonight. Why don’t you go sleep in the guest room, Harper? I’ve got her. If she wakes you up again, you’ll be complaining about your dark circles all day tomorrow.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I let him guide me out of the master bedroom, my feet moving on autopilot. It wasn’t until I stood in the hallway, staring down at the glowing date and time on my phone screen, that the reality violently clicked into place. I was back. I had woken up exactly one week before my mother, Diane, would casually destroy my entire universe with a single sentence. In one week, we were scheduled to host Mia’s first birthday. We had rented out the sunroom at a beautiful local country club. The plan, in my previous life, had been to do a little time-capsule ceremony—a moment where everyone dropped a written wish for Mia into a wooden box. But when it was my mother’s turn, she had marched to the front and slammed a manila envelope on the table. “Here’s a wish for you, sweetie,” she had said, leaning into the microphone. “I wish that one day, you get to meet your real daddy.” I had been so stunned I couldn’t even form the words to stop her. Diane had just kept going, adopting a tone of tragic martyrdom. “I can’t keep this secret anymore. It’s eating me alive. Nathan is a saint. He’s the perfect husband, the perfect father. I cannot stand by and watch my daughter play him for an absolute fool.” And then, she produced the fake DNA results. She painted a vivid, sickeningly detailed picture of my imaginary infidelity. She narrated a fictional affair, claiming I had gotten pregnant by a stranger and pinned it on Nathan to secure a comfortable life. The whispers had started immediately. Nathan, his face drained of all blood, had looked at me. He raised a hand, trembling, as if to strike me, but he couldn’t do it. The betrayal was too immense, the public spectacle too suffocating. He turned, vaulted over the balcony railing, and was gone. And I, panicked, frantic, trying to reach him, had fallen right after him. Only after the darkness took me did I realize it was just another one of Diane’s infamous “ice-breakers.” A joke. … Standing in the hallway now, listening to the muffled, soothing baritone of Nathan singing a lullaby to our daughter, the phantom sensation of the pavement rushing up to meet me vanished. In its place, a cold, crystalline resolve settled into my bones. I was not just going to save my family. I was going to force my mother to choke on her own poison. 2 The week evaporated, and the day of the party arrived, mirroring my past life perfectly. Well, almost perfectly. This time, I had upgraded the venue. The floral arrangements were taller, the guest list was twice as long, and the champagne was flowing freely. I wanted an audience. The moment Diane walked into the ballroom, her mouth was already moving. “Lord, you’d think she gave birth to the heir of the British throne,” she muttered loudly to my father, eyeing the ice sculpture. “It’s just a girl. When your brother had his son, did you throw a party this big? No.” She snatched a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. “Even if Nathan makes good money, this is gross negligence. Your brother is drowning in his mortgage, Harper. If you have this kind of cash laying around, you should be helping family first.” Nathan’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear, but he swallowed his anger for my sake. My in-laws, Tom and Carol, who had been bouncing Mia on their knees, immediately lost their smiles. I had swallowed this exact rhetoric my entire life. I was the daughter, the burden, the one destined to be married off, while my brother Derek was the golden child, the investment. I was so used to Diane’s relentless chipping away at my self-worth that I usually just stayed quiet. But I had already died once. The fear of making a scene was buried with my first life. I planted my feet, squared my shoulders, and pointed a finger directly at her. My voice carried over the light jazz playing in the background. “Excuse me? Because I married well, I’m suddenly obligated to fund your son’s life? Where does that leave Derek and his wife? Should they call me their sister, or their sugar mama?” It was the first time in twenty-eight years I had ever raised my voice at her. Diane physically recoiled, her eyes widening in genuine shock. It took her a full ten seconds to recover. “Oh, calm down, Harper. I was just joking.” She offered a tight, condescending laugh. “Besides, everyone knows boys carry the family legacy. A daughter is nice, but she’s just a guest in the house. A girl alone doesn’t mean much.” I didn’t back down. I stepped closer, my voice ringing out clearly. “She might not mean much to you, Diane, but to my husband and his parents, she is everything. You spent your whole life acting like being a woman is a curse. Don’t you dare project your internalized misogyny onto my daughter. She is a queen in this family.” The room went dead silent. That did it. I hit the exposed nerve. Diane’s face flushed a violent, mottled red. Forgetting about the time-capsule ceremony entirely, she dropped the facade. “You have a lot of nerve acting high and mighty!” she shrieked, her voice cracking like a whip across the elegant room. “Nathan and his parents treat you like royalty, and how do you repay them? By sleeping around with God knows who, and making Nathan raise a bastard!” “You ungrateful little tramp!” 3 The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet; it was a vacuum. The waiters froze mid-pour. The string quartet stopped playing. People live for drama, but a mother publicly annihilating her daughter’s character? That was a spectacle you didn’t see every day. Every eye in the room pivoted to me—the shameless, cheating wife. Nobody in their right mind would assume a mother would fabricate something so grotesque about her own child. But Diane was not in her right mind. She lived for this. She fed off the shock value of crossing unspeakable lines and then hiding behind the shield of “I’m just kidding.” When I was twelve, she pretended to slip and fall in the shower. She screamed bloody murder, begging for help. I was terrified. I ran out of my bedroom, didn’t even stop to grab a robe, and sprinted into the hallway in just my underwear. I found her standing perfectly fine in the doorway, holding her phone up, the camera lens pointed squarely at me. She was suppressing a laugh. “Oh, honey, look at you! Say hi to my coworkers! We’re on a video call!” I nearly threw up from the humiliation. When my dad and brother came home, she spun it effortlessly. “I was just pulling a prank to see if she cared enough to rush to my rescue! How was I supposed to know she’d run out half-naked?” Later, as an “apology,” she bought me a beautiful, pristine white sundress. I wore it out to the mall with my friends, feeling pretty for the first time in months. But people kept staring. Finally, a woman pulled me into a restroom. “Honey, you’ve got a heavy leak back there.” I twisted around to look in the mirror. Someone had taken bright red acrylic paint and smeared it across the back of the skirt. I ran home crying hysterically. Diane just chuckled, sipping her coffee. “You’ve been so gloomy lately, I just wanted to lighten the mood. Why are you so sensitive?” My dad and Derek had laughed until they couldn’t breathe. “Don’t blame your mother,” my dad had wheezed. “You should have checked your clothes before you put them on.” “Yeah,” Derek added. “Mom was just trying to cheer you up. Apologize to her for yelling.” They never understood—or didn’t care—that that one “joke” resulted in me being mercilessly bullied for the rest of middle school. 4 Pulling myself out of the memory, I looked at Diane with absolute, chilling calm. “You’re saying I slept around? That I made Nathan a cuckold?” I tilted my head, my voice eerily steady. “Is this another one of your jokes, Mom? Or are you being serious?” The guests, many of whom were extended family who knew Diane’s reputation, started murmuring. “Diane, come on, that’s going too far.” “Not today, Diane. Drop the act.” This wasn’t the reaction she had scripted in her head. She shifted uncomfortably, realizing the crowd wasn’t immediately pulling out their pitchforks. She gritted her teeth. “I might have a sense of humor, Harper, but I know where to draw the line. I would never joke about this.” Nathan looked shaken, his brow furrowed in deep confusion, but—unlike my first life—he didn’t pull away. The foundation of our marriage had shifted since I woke up a week ago. I had spent the last seven days loving him fiercely, communicating with him, fortifying us. He stepped slightly in front of me, taking my hand. “Diane, I know my wife. I know who she is. Mia is my daughter.” Tom and Carol, emboldened by Nathan’s stance, moved to flank me. “Exactly,” Carol said sharply. Having my chosen family form a physical wall around me gave me a rush of adrenaline. I leaned into it. “You heard him,” I said, my voice hardening. “If you’re going to make an accusation like that, you better have the evidence to back it up. Otherwise, you can walk out those doors and never call yourself my mother again.” My father, Robert, turned purple with rage. He lunged forward, raising his hand to slap me, but Nathan caught his wrist mid-air, his grip like a vise. Denied his violence, Robert stomped his foot like a petulant child. “How dare you speak to her like that! You think your mother would just make this up?” Derek nodded vigorously. “Mom is just trying to save Nathan from wasting his life on a liar! You should be on your knees begging Nathan for forgiveness so he doesn’t throw you out on the street!” I rolled my eyes at the two of them, pulled out my phone, and tapped the screen. “Show me the proof, Diane. Right now. Or I am dialing 911 and pressing charges for criminal defamation.” Seeing I wasn’t backing down, a triumphant gleam sparked in Diane’s eyes. “You want proof? Fine. Explain this!” She unzipped her designer tote, pulled out a crisp manila envelope, and whipped out a thick stack of papers, flipping straight to the final page. “Right here! ‘Probability of Paternity: 0%.’ Sample A is the baby. Sample B is Nathan. It’s scientific proof! What do you have to say for yourself now?” 5 Diane paraded the paper around like a trophy, ensuring the people in the front row got a good look at the bold black text. “You all think Harper is this perfect little angel,” Diane announced to the room, reveling in the spotlight. “But a mother knows. I always knew what she was.” She scoffed, playing to the crowd. “When it was time for college, I found her a great local school. Safe, easy to commute, good job prospects. But no, she insisted on going to a university halfway across the country. Why? Because she wanted to be off the leash. She wanted to sleep around without me catching her.” She wasn’t entirely wrong about the college part. I did pick the furthest school possible—but it was solely to escape the suffocating, toxic hellscape of her roof. And thank God I did, because it was exactly how I met a man as decent as Nathan. The crowd, seeing the official-looking crest and the DNA sequencing on the paper, fell silent again. The murmurs changed tenor. “My God… you don’t joke with a printed lab report.” “Maybe Diane really is just trying to do the right thing…” “Now that I look at her, the baby doesn’t really have Nathan’s nose, does she?” I let my face crumple into a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. I looked at Diane, my eyes wide and wounded. “Mom, what are you doing? Are you trying to destroy my life? You know me! Nathan was my first real boyfriend. How could you even think I’d be capable of this?” Diane ignored me completely. Instead, she turned to Nathan and did the unthinkable. She dropped to her knees. “Nathan,” she wept, clutching at his pant leg. “You are such a good man. This is my fault. I failed as a mother. I didn’t raise her right. I let her become this… this tramp.” She sniffled loudly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “But please, don’t leave her. She confessed everything to me. She promised she’ll never look at another man again. She even promised me she’d give you a son next time to make up for it. Just find it in your heart to forgive her.” Nathan, Carol, and Tom stood completely paralyzed. They exchanged bewildered, deeply uncomfortable glances. 6 Finally, the three of them looked at me, their eyes begging for an explanation to this surreal theater production. I played the cornered, desperate victim flawlessly. I looked wildly at the two men who shared my blood. “Dad? Derek? Say something! You know me. You know I would never do this.” Of course they knew. They knew exactly who I was. But as they exchanged a quick, calculating look, I saw the exact moment they realized that my ruin could be their jackpot. Suddenly, they were the picture of righteous fury. “Don’t you call me Dad!” Robert bellowed, pounding his chest. “When I told you to keep your legs closed, did you listen to me then?” He turned to Nathan, placing a heavy, sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Nathan, son. If you want a divorce, I don’t blame you. But let’s be clear—the law says the assets get split. The house, the cars, the accounts. We have to do things legally.” Derek jumped in, practically salivating. “Honestly, Nathan, cutting ties is for the best. I can even introduce you to someone better! Harper says she won’t cheat again, but once a cheater, always a cheater, right? Her promises are garbage.” They were foaming at the mouth, more eager for my divorce than Diane was. In my past life, I hadn’t understood their sudden, vicious turn. It was only after I died that the pieces clicked together. Derek’s boss—a wealthy, thrice-divorced man—had taken a liking to me at a company dinner. Derek knew that if I was suddenly single and disgraced, he could push me into his boss’s bed and secure a massive promotion. And Robert? Robert just wanted my half of the divorce settlement. He had his eye on one of the investment properties Nathan and I owned. Realizing the depths of their depravity snapped whatever lingering biological bond I felt toward them. My heart went cold. I took a slow, deep breath, reached down, and gently pulled the paternity test from Diane’s trembling hands. I stared at the paper. Then, I let my jaw drop in perfectly feigned horror. “Oh my god…” I whispered, loud enough for the microphone nearby to catch it. “Mom… did you grab the wrong envelope?” “Why does this lab report say the test was between Robert and Derek?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400776”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was the third month of my kidnapping when I finally broke out. I didn’t go to the police. I didn’t go home. I went to the hospital. The ER doctor stared at me, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked like a knot. “Where is your family? I need a signature for the emergency surgery. Now.” I lay on the gurney, my eyes tracing the sterile, humming fluorescent lights on the ceiling. “My parents are dead,” I said, my voice barely a rasp. “I don’t have anyone.” That night, Victoria arrived. My wife—on paper, at least. The ice-queen CEO with a net worth in the billions. She swept into the trauma ward wearing a custom Chanel suit and four-inch Jimmy Choos, her makeup flawless, not a single hair out of place. She looked as though she had just stepped off the red carpet of some charity gala. She stood over my bed, looking down at me. Her tone carried that familiar, polished impatience. “Harry, what kind of game are you playing this time? If you were hospitalized, why didn’t you have someone call my office?” I looked at her. I didn’t panic and scramble to explain myself the second her brow twitched, the way I always used to. I didn’t scream at her. I didn’t ask why she hadn’t picked up a single one of the three hundred and seventy-four desperate phone calls I had made to her. I didn’t even ask her why, when the rumors of my brutal murder were circulating through the city’s elite, she was busy walking arm-in-arm with her untouchable first love at a private auction in Paris, dropping millions to buy him a toy. Instead, the corners of my mouth twitched. I offered her a polite, entirely hollow smile—an expression she had never seen on my face before. “Ms. Crawford, you must be mistaken.” “We don’t know each other well enough for you to be here.” 1 Victoria’s expression froze. For the first time in our three years of marriage, a crack of genuine, unfiltered shock shattered the placid surface of her dark eyes—eyes that usually saw through every corporate bluff and boardroom scheme. “What did you just say?” Her voice remained cold, but the final syllable carried a microscopic tremor. Are you deaf? I said, we’re strangers. I didn’t repeat myself. I simply turned my head, letting my gaze drift toward the heavy ink of the night sky outside the window. For three months, I had stared at a sky exactly like that through the single, mold-choked air vent of a basement cell. Back then, my only lifeline, my only sustaining thought, was that she would find me. Now, that hope—along with the battered, hollowed-out remnants of my heart—was dead. “Harry, do you have any idea who you are talking to?” Victoria was clearly insulted by my indifference. She took a step forward, the sheer, crushing weight of her presence instantly dominating the small hospital room. It was her favorite tactic. Overpower. Intimidate. Force the surrender. The old me would have crumbled under that look. I would have shrunk down, apologized profusely, and bent over backward to smooth out the crease between her brows. But right now? I just found it incredibly funny. I turned my head back to her. My eyes were as still as stagnant water. “Ms. Victoria Crawford.” I enunciated every syllable, using the most formal, distant title possible. “According to the state, we are legally married. But I don’t believe our current dynamic warrants a midnight hospital visit.” My voice was terrifyingly soft. My vocal cords had been shredded by weeks of screaming and chronic dehydration. It came out as a gravelly, broken wheeze. The sound of it drained another shade of color from Victoria’s face. It seemed she was finally noticing that I wasn’t just “hospitalized” for a routine check-up. My face was a map of fading, ugly contusions. Beneath the thin fabric of the hospital gown, my arms were wrapped in heavy gauze, blood seeping through where the blades had cut down to the bone. I was emaciated, my cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, my eyes sunken deep into their sockets. I looked like a walking corpse. 2 “Your face… your arms… who did this to you?” The anger in her eyes dissolved into shock, and perhaps, a fleeting trace of panic. Only noticing now, Victoria? What exactly do you use those eyes for? I didn’t answer her. Instead, I looked past her toward the doorway and spoke softly. “Nurse? Could you please call security?” “This woman is severely disrupting my recovery.” Victoria went totally rigid. She stared at me in absolute disbelief, as if she were looking at a madman. “Harry! Have you lost your mind?!” “I’m perfectly sane.” I looked right through her. No anger. No resentment. Just an endless, echoing void. “I just finally saw things clearly.” “I want a divorce.” Three words. I said them as casually as if I were commenting on the weather, but they detonated like a live grenade in the dead silence of the room. Victoria was utterly paralyzed. She opened her mouth, but not a single sound came out. That beautiful, calculated face—the one that maintained absolute rationality in the face of billion-dollar losses—finally fractured. For three years, I had loved her loudly, publicly, and pathetically. I was the biggest joke in our social circle—a man who had thrown away his own ambitions and pride to marry into the Crawford family, playing the role of the docile, obedient trophy husband to a woman who couldn’t stand him. Everyone was just waiting for the day she finally kicked me to the curb. And I had never once thought of giving up. Not until those three hundred and seventy-four unanswered calls. Not until I saw the news headline from Paris. What broke me wasn’t the fists of the men who beat me. It was the realization that, while I was bleeding out on a concrete floor, the woman I loved more than breathing had actively chosen to look the other way. “You want… a divorce?” Victoria finally found her voice. She let out a sharp, incredulous breath, treating it like a spectacular joke. “Is this your new strategy, Harry? Throwing a tantrum to get my attention? I don’t have the time or the patience for these pathetic little games.” A game. Right. To you, my entire existence is just a game. I closed my eyes. I was so exhausted I didn’t even have the energy to look at her anymore. “If you don’t have a divorce attorney on retainer, I can give you a few names,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll cover your legal fees.” Without another word, I pressed the call button on the side of the bed. Within seconds, a nurse and two security guards hurried into the room. “Sir, is everything alright?” I opened my eyes, looked at Victoria, and gave a faint nod toward the door. “Please escort this woman out.” Watching the security guards awkwardly approach her, watching Victoria’s face cycle through shock, fury, and utter humiliation—I felt an unprecedented wave of relief wash over me. So this was what it felt like when your heart finally stopped beating for someone. The sky could fall, and I wouldn’t even blink. Victoria was essentially forced out by security. For a woman of her pride and status, it was the ultimate indignity. Through the thin door, I could hear her furiously barking orders at her chief of staff in the hallway, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Investigate this! I want to know exactly where he’s been for the last three months!” “Pull the hospital security footage. I want a list of everyone he’s spoken to!” “And get my legal team on the phone, tell them to—” She cut herself off. I knew what she had been about to say. Tell them to draft the divorce papers. But the words had died in her throat. Go ahead, Victoria. Dig. Dig until you hit the bottom. See exactly what your precious, high-and-mighty indifference almost cost me. I lay back against the pillows, numbly cataloging the sharp, stabbing pain radiating from my fractured ribs. 3 The nurse came back in to change my dressings. She had light hands and sympathetic eyes. “Your… your wife. She isn’t very kind to you,” the young woman whispered, unable to hold her tongue. I just smiled faintly. I didn’t say a word. Wasn’t she? There was a time when I had convinced myself she was. We had been married for three years. She was distant, yes, but she provided me with an incredibly lavish life. The cars I drove, the tailored suits I wore, the sprawling estate I lived in—all of it belonged to Crawford Enterprises. She allowed me to exist in her orbit. She let me play the role of “Victoria’s Husband” at insignificant galas. I used to believe that if I just tried hard enough, if I just loved her enough, I could eventually melt the glacier she kept around her heart. I learned to cook her favorite meals. I learned massage therapy for her migraines. I learned corporate management just so I could help organize her lower-level files. I was like a desperate, pathetic zealot, worshipping at the altar of a god who didn’t even know my name. Until three months ago. I had driven to a neighboring city to pick up an urgent contract she needed. On the winding mountain road back, a heavy-duty freight truck purposefully rammed my car off the cliff. It wasn’t an accident. It was a meticulously planned kidnapping. The people who took me were ruthless rivals of Victoria’s company. They didn’t want a ransom. They wanted to force Victoria Crawford to her knees. They tossed a phone at my bleeding face and told me to call her. I called. The first ring went to voicemail. The second ring went to voicemail. … On the one-hundredth call, she finally picked up. There was loud, thumping bass in the background. The clinking of crystal champagne flutes. Laughter. I screamed with everything I had left in my lungs. “Victoria, help! They’ve got me—” Click. She hung up. Then, the fists started falling. After that, I dialed that memorized number every single day. Three hundred and seventy-four times. Every single time, I got a cold, automated tone. Or the call was instantly rejected. Until the third month, when I finally saw her on the cracked screen of a guard’s discarded tablet. She was the headline on the financial news. Crawford Enterprises CEO Victoria Crawford Spends $40 Million at Paris Auction on Antique Violin for Musical Prodigy Spencer Brooks. In the photo, she had her arm linked elegantly through Spencer’s. She was smiling—a rare, gentle, indulgent smile. Spencer Brooks. The golden boy. The one who got away. The untouchable saint she kept locked in a glass box in her heart, whom no one was allowed to breathe on. In that moment, everything snapped into crystal clarity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t hear my cries for help. It was that my survival simply did not register on her radar. My life meant less to her than a single smile from her first love. And so, I stopped calling. I found a rusted nail on the damp basement floor. It took me seven days and seven nights of agonizing, bloody work to saw through the thick nylon ropes binding my wrists. On a night when the rain was coming down in sheets, I broke out. The sound of gunfire chased me through three blocks of mud and darkness. I don’t even know how I survived. When I finally regained consciousness, I was here. A trucker passing through the industrial park had found me on the shoulder of the highway, brought me in, and even paid the admission deposit. I pulled out my phone and stared at Victoria’s name sitting quietly in my contacts. I didn’t call. I pressed ‘Block.’ Then, ‘Delete.’ From this second forward, Victoria Crawford was nothing but a stranger. A stranger who was about to become my ex-wife. The next morning, my hospital room became incredibly “crowded.” Victoria’s chief of staff, along with two heavily armed bodyguards, stood outside my door like sentries, blocking anyone who tried to visit. And sitting inside the room was someone I hadn’t expected to see: Dr. Wallace, the Crawford family’s private physician. Dr. Wallace was in his sixties. He had watched Victoria grow up and held immense authority within her inner circle. 4 He sat by my bed, holding my medical chart. His face was so grim it looked like it was carved from stone. “Harry, you…” He looked at me, struggling to find the words. His eyes were a chaotic mix of shock, profound pity, and a trace of carefully concealed fury. I met his gaze evenly. “Spit it out, Doc. I know exactly what shape my body is in.” Dr. Wallace let out a heavy sigh and placed the chart on the nightstand. “Severe, full-body soft tissue contusions. Three hairline fractures in your ribs. A compound fracture in your left tibia. A mild concussion. And…” He paused, lowering his voice. “Your stomach lining is completely ruined. The prolonged starvation and ingestion of contaminated water caused severe perforations and multiple ulcers. Your vocal cords have sustained heavy trauma.” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to my arms. “But the worst of it is your right hand. The tendons were intentionally severed. The surgeons managed to reattach them, but moving forward… I’m afraid you’ll never regain your previous dexterity.” My right hand… I subconsciously looked down at the heavy layers of gauze wrapping my hand. When the kidnappers realized I had been trying to escape, they decided to punish me. They took a blade to my wrists. They knew I used to be a somewhat recognized painter in the New York art scene. They hadn’t just wanted to break my body. They wanted to obliterate my soul. “I understand.” I nodded slowly. My voice was as calm as if we were discussing the weather in a foreign country. Dr. Wallace’s frown deepened. “Do you… do you even care?” I laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “Does caring change anything, Doc? Will caring fix the nerves in my hand? Will it erase the last three months of hell?” Dr. Wallace fell silent. He knew I was right. A suffocating quiet filled the room. I knew why he was really here. Victoria sent him. She didn’t trust me, but she trusted Dr. Wallace’s medical expertise unconditionally. Now, he had seen the reality of my broken body with his own eyes. This chart was going to be sitting on her mahogany desk within the hour. I wondered what kind of face she would make when she read the clinical, undeniable proof of my torture. Would she feel guilty? Would she regret it? Or… would she still assume this was all just an elaborate, self-inflicted scheme to manipulate her emotions? “Harry,” Dr. Wallace said suddenly, sounding incredibly old. “Victoria… she didn’t do this maliciously. The company has been in a state of absolute crisis these past three months. She was drowning in fires to put out, and she just—” “And that gave her the right to ignore over three hundred desperate phone calls?” I cut him off. I didn’t raise my voice, but the absolute zero temperature in my tone made Dr. Wallace snap his mouth shut. My eyes drifted past him, landing on the expensive, insulated thermos sitting on the side table. “Did she tell you to bring that?” Dr. Wallace looked profoundly uncomfortable. He nodded. “It’s a medicinal chicken broth. She made it herself. She said your body is weak and you need the nutrients.” Made it herself? Victoria? A woman who couldn’t even point out which direction her own kitchen was in? I scoffed internally, though my face remained a blank mask. I threw off the thin hospital blanket, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and slowly, painfully stood up. I walked over to the thermos. Just as Dr. Wallace’s shoulders relaxed, clearly assuming I was accepting this pathetic, belated olive branch, I unscrewed the lid. I took a brief sniff of the rich broth. Then, I walked over to the open window and tipped the thermos upside down. I poured every last drop of the steaming, golden liquid out the window and into the hospital’s decorative holly bushes two stories below. Splash. Dr. Wallace’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What… what are you doing?!” I set the empty thermos gently on the windowsill. I turned around, looked him dead in the eye, and spoke with agonizing precision. “Doctor, please pass a message along to Victoria.” 5 “Tell her that even if I were starving to death, I would never swallow another bite of food from her hands.” “And.” I paused, looking right through him, visualizing the woman sitting in her high-rise glass office, waiting for his report. “Tell her to sign the divorce papers. Quickly.” My words were a physical slap to the face, delivered entirely by proxy. Dr. Wallace was so stunned he couldn’t formulate a response. He grabbed the empty thermos and basically fled the room, his face pale and tight. I knew it was only a matter of time before the hurricane hit. Sure enough, less than thirty minutes later, my door was violently shoved open. Victoria was back. This time, the pristine armor of her designer suit was gone. She was wearing a simple beige trench coat, her hair haphazardly twisted up in a clip. Her face was completely bare of makeup, and heavy, bruised shadows hung beneath her eyes. It was obvious she hadn’t slept a wink. She stormed over to my bed, her chest heaving. Those eyes, usually locked behind a wall of permafrost, were blazing with erratic fury and… was that panic? “Harry! What exactly do you want from me?!” She slammed a thick manila folder onto my lap. “I read Wallace’s report! You got hurt, fine! I admit I was negligent! I will get you the best specialists in the country, the best private nurses. I will compensate you, I will make it right! But a divorce? Don’t even think about it!” Compensate me? What currency could possibly pay for my ruined hands? I didn’t look at the medical report. Instead, I picked up the thick folder she had thrown at me. It was a pre-drafted divorce agreement. The only thing missing were the signatures at the bottom. Clearly, she had been planning this for a while. She just never expected I would be the one demanding it first. I picked up the pen from the bedside table. With my left hand, painfully and awkwardly, I scrawled my name on the bottom line. Harry. I slid the papers back across the blanket toward her. “Sign it.” My movements, my tone—they were like a blade dipped in poison, sliding effortlessly between her ribs. All the color violently drained from Victoria’s face. “You…” She pointed a trembling finger at me, shaking with pure rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re a parasite! A kept man living off my family’s money! What right do you have to demand a divorce from me? Don’t forget, Harry, every single thing you have in this world is because I allowed it! Without me, you couldn’t even afford to walk through the front doors of this hospital!” There it was. The venom. The cruelty she relied on to keep everyone beneath her. In the past, those words would have gutted me. They would have sent me spiraling into an abyss of self-doubt and agony. Now? It was just embarrassing to watch. “Victoria, I think you’re deeply confused about something.” I tilted my head, meeting her furious glare with absolute, chilling calm. “I have never lived off you. We signed an ironclad prenuptial agreement. I have never touched a single cent of your money. Everything I’ve bought in the last three years came from my own personal accounts. And as for this hospital…” I paused, a dark, mocking smile curling the corner of my mouth. “Trinity Memorial… I actually happen to own a minor equity stake in it.” Victoria’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. “Bullshit!” she snapped instantly. “Trinity Memorial is wholly owned by the Prescott Empire out of New York! What does that have to do with you?!” You really never bothered to look at me, did you? “The New York Prescotts.” I looked at her like she was a slow child. “Funny thing about that. My last name is Prescott.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400775”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the reality TV show wrapped, my parents decided to keep the girl I had swapped lives with. They adopted her. From that day on, I became the control group in a cruel domestic experiment. My parents adored her. They resented me. My boyfriend fell for her. He betrayed me. For years, I screamed and fought and broke things, clinging to a desperate, pathetic hope. I thought, I am their flesh and blood. When the dust settles, they have to love me. That hope died the day I saw their newly drafted will. Every asset, every property, the entire estate—left to Harper. It was buried the day I watched them enthusiastically plan a lavish wedding for Harper and my boyfriend. The grief was a living thing that ate me hollow. I caused a massive scene, a final, humiliating explosion of despair, which ended with me plummeting from a balcony to the concrete below. Then, I opened my eyes. And I was right back at the exact moment the reality show ended. 1 To “fix” me, my parents had signed me up for a show called Privilege Swap. They shipped me off to an impoverished, rural farming town, desperate to teach me the value of a dollar, hoping the grueling labor would make me appreciate the empire they had built. When the cameras stopped rolling, my parents took one look at the girl who had taken my place in our mansion and their hearts simply melted. They were so overcome with charity, so moved by her tragic backstory, that they decided to keep her. As a daughter. I, naturally, refused to accept it. The unconditional empathy and tenderness I had starved for my entire life was handed to Harper after a few mere days. Why? After my first screaming match about it, Harper had stood in the foyer, tears spilling perfectly over her lower lashes. “Mom,” she wept, her voice trembling. “Maybe you should just send me back to the foster system. Maddie is your real, irreplaceable baby. It’s totally normal that my being here upsets her. You’ve been so, so good to me… I couldn’t bear to be the reason you and my new sister fight.” The moment those words left her mouth, my mother’s heart bled for her completely. She turned her fury on me. “Madeline,” she snapped, her voice dripping with disgust. “I thought this trip would give you some perspective. I didn’t realize you were still so impossibly selfish!” “You lived in her house. You saw the squalor she came from. Did nothing touch that ice-cold heart of yours? Are you really so vindictive that there’s no room in this massive house for her?” Under the barrage of her accusations, my throat had closed up. I only managed to choke out, “What does her life have to do with me? Did I cause her poverty?” My mother slapped me across the face. The crack echoed off the marble floors. She called me a monster. She called me a lost cause. From that day forward in my past life, I acted out. I pushed every boundary, broke every rule. I thought, naively, that because I was their biological daughter, their patience was infinite. I thought eventually, they would send Harper away and look at me again. I was flattering myself. In the end, they left the family fortune to her. They paid for her dream wedding to the boy I loved. They erased me. Even as I lay broken and bleeding on the pavement, they didn’t spare me a second glance. They were rich. They could buy as many daughters as they wanted. But I only ever had one mother, and one father. 2 So this time, when they sat me down in the living room and proposed adopting Harper, I just looked at them. I nodded. “If it makes you both happy, then let her stay.” It wasn’t like my opinion had ever mattered to them anyway. My mother’s posture immediately relaxed into smug satisfaction. She took all the credit, naturally. “See? Sending you on that show worked wonders. You’ve come back with a completely different attitude.” In my previous life, my parents had promised to fly home early from a business trip to celebrate my birthday. I waited in the living room from breakfast until midnight. They never showed. When they finally called, they said it slipped their minds, but promised to buy me the limited-edition architectural Lego set I’d been begging for as an apology. I waited weeks for it. When the massive box finally arrived, I came downstairs just in time to see my mother casually handing it over to a distant cousin’s bratty six-year-old who was visiting. I threw a fit. My mother rolled her eyes and told me to stop being so stingy. It’s just a toy, they reasoned. We’ll buy you another one. Yes, it was just a toy. So why couldn’t they buy the six-year-old a different toy? Why did they have to give away the exact thing that belonged to me? When the replacement box was finally shoved into my hands a week later, the magic was dead. I didn’t want it anymore. I threw it on the floor. “I don’t want this one! I wanted the first one!” My mother was furious. “Why are you so impossible to please? I replaced it! What more do you want from me?” I remember standing there, suffocating on my own tears. “You promised it to me, and you gave it to someone else! Do you ever, for one second, think about how I feel?” That earned me another slap. “Do you go hungry? Do you lack for clothes? We provide you with a life most kids would kill for, and you have the nerve to say we don’t consider you?” “We kill ourselves working to give you this life, and you throw a tantrum over plastic bricks? Why are you so ungrateful?” She vented all her frustration on me, completely blind to the fact that it was never about the plastic bricks. It was about the love they represented. The promise. The girl receiving the gift was no longer the same girl, and the mother giving it no longer had the same intentions. Once something is given away, you can’t buy it back. An identical copy doesn’t erase the betrayal. They decided I was a spoiled brat. Shortly after, I was packed off to Privilege Swap. Now, standing in the foyer with my duffel bag, I turned toward the stairs. My mother’s voice stopped me. “Maddie, your room… Harper is staying in it.” I froze on the first step. I looked back over my shoulder at her. “And?” She blinked, momentarily thrown by my calm, before waving a dismissive hand. “She’s just gotten used to it. You just got back, so it’ll be easier for you to just take one of the guest rooms down the hall.” Even though I knew this was coming, a cold draft still blew straight through the hollow of my chest. Harper had been here for a week, and she was “used to it.” I had lived in that room for seventeen years. Was I not used to it? Harper stood slightly behind my mother, watching me with wide, anxious eyes. Being reborn hadn’t changed a thing: I still despised Harper. And whatever she had touched, I no longer wanted. “Since you’ve already made the decision,” I said, my voice flat, “then that’s fine.” 3 After I unpacked my things into the sterile guest room upstairs, my mother knocked on the door. She sat on the edge of the mattress, her voice taking on a gentle, probing tone. “Maddie, I know how much you loved your old room downstairs. But Harper needs it more than you do right now. Just tell me what this room is missing, and I’ll have it ordered tomorrow.” So she knew. She knew exactly how much I loved that room, and she evicted me from it anyway. “No need, Mom. Thank you,” I said, perfectly polite. Perfectly detached. There was no point. I had designed that old room down to the hardware on the drawers. It had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over my mother’s private rose garden. It was my sanctuary. Now, it was Harper’s. My lack of hysterics clearly threw my mother off balance. But she recovered quickly, accepting it as a victory. This was the broken, compliant daughter she had paid reality TV producers to create, after all. “Get some rest, then,” she said, slipping out of the room. A moment later, the sound of bright, genuine laughter drifted up from the living room below. I closed my eyes, remembering the flashes from my past life—the picturesque scenes of Harper, my mother, and my father, looking like an advertisement for the perfect American family. I used to kill myself trying to fit into that picture. Now, I knew it was a locked door. Why does it still hurt? I pressed the heel of my palm against my chest. It’s fine, I told myself. You just have to adapt. The ending is already written. Why suffer through it twice? I threw myself entirely into my studies, treating the family drama like white noise. The next time my mother screamed at me, it was over Harper’s eighteenth birthday. Harper had casually mentioned that she had never had a real birthday cake, never had a party. So, naturally, my parents threw her an event that rivaled a royal coronation. I walked in from my SAT prep course just as they were cutting the cake. Harper was wearing a glittering tiara, sitting sandwiched between my parents. She held a slice of cake on a porcelain plate, radiating pure, untainted joy. When she saw me walk in, she froze. Her smile vanished. She cast a terrified, sidelong glance at my mother, then slowly, carefully, set her plate down on the coffee table. She nervously wiped at the corner of her mouth, even though there wasn’t a speck of frosting there. It was a masterclass in silent victimhood. And my mother bought every second of it. My mother’s brow slammed down like a gavel. She glared at me. “Madeline, what did you say to her? Have you been bullying Harper?” Before I could even open my mouth, my mother had wrapped a fiercely protective arm around Harper’s shoulders. As if my mere presence was a physical threat. In this life, I hadn’t laid a finger on her. I hadn’t said a word to her. I had treated her like the furniture. I was just trying to survive high school. “Mom,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Why would you immediately assume I did anything to her?” My mother hesitated, but quickly doubled down. “Because I know exactly how you operate. You’re spoiled, you’re aggressive, and you have to have everything your way.” Her tone hardened into steel. “We adopted Harper. This is her house too. You are the older sister. You need to start conceding to her.” 4 Harper looked up at me, her eyes shimmering with manufactured pleading. “Maddie… do you want to come have some cake with us?” “No. Thank you.” Harper turned her wounded Bambi eyes toward my mother. My mother offered Harper a soft, reassuring smile, before snapping her attention back to me, her voice dropping an octave. “Today is your sister’s birthday. Do not ruin her mood.” So it’s fine if you ruin mine? Right. Of course. They couldn’t even remember my birthday. Why would my feelings factor into the equation? I offered a thin, polite smile. “Mom, I can wait and eat cake on my own birthday. She hasn’t had much cake in her life, right? I won’t take any of hers. She should enjoy it.” It was a perfectly crafted response. Polite, distant, and utterly bulletproof. “When your birthday comes—” My mother started to speak, then stopped abruptly. The realization hit her. My birthday had passed weeks ago. A fleeting shadow of guilt crossed her face, gone as fast as it appeared. I kept my voice deadpan. “I agreed she could stay. I’m not going to do anything to her.” I looked my mother dead in the eye. “There is my promise on the record. Can you relax now, Mom?” I turned and walked upstairs. I didn’t care about the guilt on her face. My utter indifference had finally registered as a red flag to her. When was the last time I threw my arms around her? When was the last time I begged for her attention, or whined about my day? Before Harper arrived, my mother and I fought, but to me, she had still been the center of my universe. I heard her stand up, her footsteps moving toward the stairs. But then came the soft, calculated sniffle from the living room. “Maddie didn’t do anything,” Harper whispered, her voice cracking. “I just… I just miss my real parents.” The footsteps stopped. Then, they retreated. “Oh, sweetie,” my mother cooed, her voice thick with heartbreak. “They’re gone, but you have us now. We’re your real parents now.” I stood in my room and quietly shut the door. How wonderful, I thought. Her parents are gone, so she gets new ones. I lost my parents while they’re still alive in the room downstairs. Who’s going to comfort me? 5 The next afternoon, I walked into the living room with a corporate lawyer and a stack of legal documents. I owned twenty percent of the family’s holding company. My grandfather had left it to me in his will. The shares were held in a trust controlled by my parents until I turned eighteen, at which point control transferred directly to me. In my past life, I was so consumed with my jealousy over Harper that the shares hadn’t even crossed my mind. I died before I ever claimed them, leaving the entire fortune for Harper to gorge herself on. My father stared at me, dumbfounded. “You’re still in high school. What do you need corporate equity for? Do we not give you enough allowance?” My lawyer, a sharp woman in a tailored suit, stepped forward. “According to the late Mr. Prescott’s will, Madeline’s shares are to be transferred to her sole control upon her eighteenth birthday. As she has met the condition, we ask that you sign the transfer documents.” Cornered by the legal reality and the presence of counsel, my parents reluctantly signed the papers. The second the pen left the paper, my mother couldn’t hold back. “It was going to be yours eventually anyway. Was it really necessary to orchestrate this little stunt just to humiliate us for missing your birthday?” She scoffed. “Consider the equity a belated birthday present. Now drop the attitude.” It was a fascinating psychological defense. The shares had belonged to my grandfather. He gave them to me. Yet, because they had held onto them for so long, they somehow convinced themselves the money was theirs to give. I slipped the signed documents into my leather tote. I tried to swallow the burning resentment in my throat, but it was suffocating. “Mom, when did I ever throw a fit about my birthday? You’re projecting your own guilt onto me. But you don’t need to feel guilty. I didn’t expect a party. It’s just a day. It doesn’t matter.” I looked between them. “And secondly, these shares are my inheritance from Grandpa. They aren’t a gift from you. They belong to me.” “And Dad,” I continued, my voice turning icy, “You mentioned my allowance. You both know exactly how much the annual dividend is on twenty percent of the company. Since Grandpa passed, you’ve been absorbing those dividends. If we’re getting into the accounting of my allowance, you technically owe me back pay.” My voice was hard. My face must have looked like stone. They stared at me, their expressions cycling from shock, to disappointment, to absolute fury. “Why do you think your grandfather left that to you in the first place?” my father barked. “Because you are my daughter!” I offered a humorless smile. “Well. That’s just the luck of the draw, isn’t it? You shouldn’t have had me.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “400774”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel