The call came, and just like that, my sister-in-law, Linda, was gone. A firestorm of screaming matches with my husband’s brother, Mark, and then… nothing. She’d walked out, leaving her twin daughters behind like a pair of old shoes. And now, here was my mother-in-law, Eleanor, standing on my doorstep, the girls flanking her like sullen bodyguards. They were high school sophomores, all sharp angles and simmering resentment. “Clara, honey,” Eleanor pleaded, her voice a practiced quaver. “An aunt has to be a mother now. You have to pity them. Two girls, without a mom…” In another life, I’d listened. In another life, my heart had been a bleeding, foolish thing. I’d taken them in. I’d poured my soul into those girls, bled my bank account dry for tutors and art camps, all to see them accepted into top-tier universities. And at their graduation party, a celebration I had thrown for them, they had repaid me with a spectacular, tear-streaked performance. Hailey had sobbed to our relatives that I’d treated them like household help. Kayla added that I’d even let my son, Leo, watch them, that he would come into their room. “Just because our mom left doesn’t mean we don’t have any dignity!” she’d cried. Then Linda, as if on cue, materialized from the crowd to reclaim her wronged children. She’d swept them into her arms, and they’d sworn they would never set foot in my toxic home again. My husband’s family turned on me, their whispers like venom. How could she? Those poor, motherless girls. Lost in a fog of disbelief, I felt two pairs of hands on my back. A hard shove. The world tilted, the city lights a dizzying smear as I tumbled from the 28th-floor balcony. My last sensation was a shattering impact. I blinked. The scent of Eleanor’s cloying perfume. The identical, resentful faces of the twins. I was back. This time, I would be so much better to them. I would be the aunt they deserved. And the first thing I’d do? Buy them each the brand-new iPhone they’d been begging for. 1 “Clara, you’re their mother now, you have to be,” Eleanor’s wheedling voice burrowed into my ear, pulling me from the daze. Yes. It was real. I was back on that very day. Before I could even speak, Eleanor was pushing the girls forward. “Hailey, Kayla, get on your knees. Thank your aunt. From now on, you treat her like your own mother, you hear me?” Hailey bristled. “We have a mom, Grandma.” “A mom?” Eleanor scoffed, her voice dripping with righteous indignation. “That woman isn’t fit to be called a mother! Leaving you at the most important time of your lives, just to run off and remarry. Let me tell you, from this day forward, Clara is the only mother you have. Your future, your college, everything depends on her now. So you show her some respect!” Reluctantly, Hailey and Kayla knelt before me, their voices a mumbled chorus. “Aunt Clara.” “Call her ‘Mom’!” Eleanor commanded. “Listen to your grandmother. Forget that witch. She threw you away. Why would you even think of her?” Last time, I’d fought it. I’d insisted I wasn’t trying to replace their mother, which only made them resent me more when Eleanor’s slaps finally forced the word “Mom” from their lips. That single word became a grudge they nursed for years. But Eleanor’s goal was never about family; it was about shifting financial responsibility squarely onto my shoulders. This time, I rushed forward, pulling them to their feet. “Oh, no, please don’t,” I said, my voice soft with understanding. “An aunt is an aunt. I could never take your mother’s place. You two just focus on your studies. As long as you work hard and stay on the right path, you won’t want for anything here. I promise, whatever my Leo has, you’ll have too.” Their eyes, previously guarded, lit up with a spark of surprise. “For real?” Kayla whispered. I gave them my most reassuring smile. “Absolutely. I’m a mother. I know how it is. You just make yourselves at home.” 2 Eleanor looked stunned by my easy acceptance. Even my husband, Robert, seemed taken aback. He pulled me aside. “Two teenage girls… that’s a lot to handle, Clara. Are you sure you’re up for this?” I was. Oh, I was. In my first life, my hesitation had earned me a lecture from Robert about my lack of compassion. “You’re a mother, how can you be so cold-hearted? They’re family, not strangers. You’ve known them since they were babies.” This time, I threw his own words back at him with a serene smile. “Don’t worry, darling. I will take the best possible care of them.” Refusing would only make me the villain from day one. This way was so much better. I started immediately. The master bedroom, the king-sized bed Robert and I had shared for twenty years, was cleared out. We crammed our lives into the cramped study, a space barely big enough for a mattress. I carried the twins’ suitcases into their new room myself. I bought them fresh, coastal-blue bedding and even changed the heavy drapes to light, airy curtains in a shade of seafoam green they’d once admired. I set up two new desks for their schoolwork. Robert and Eleanor were thoroughly impressed, praising my generosity. I just smiled. This was only the beginning. Next, a trip to the supermarket. “Get whatever you want,” I told them, gesturing to the aisles. “Anything at all.” Hailey’s eyes widened. “Like… Cheetos? And Coke? And Ben & Jerry’s?” “Of course!” “But… Mom said that’s all junk food. She never let us have it.” I laughed, a warm, conspiratorial sound, as I piled their cart high. “Oh, honey. If it were really poison, they wouldn’t be allowed to sell it. Your mom was just trying to save a few bucks. Don’t you worry about that anymore.” They attacked the aisles like it was Christmas morning, their cart overflowing. When we got home, Robert frowned at the mountain of snacks covering the kitchen island. “They’re teenagers, Clara. Especially girls… all this junk isn’t good for their skin. Or their weight.” I smiled placidly, offering no argument. But every day, the snack hoard was magically replenished. I started snapping photos of them, faces smeared with chocolate, laughing as they guzzled soda. I posted them on Facebook with carefully crafted captions. 【So happy to see these poor girls finally enjoying themselves. They’ve been through so much. In my house, they’ll never be denied the simple joys of being a kid.】 The comments from the family flooded in. 【Clara, you’re a saint! A better mother than their own.】 【Seriously. What kind of woman is Linda? To walk out right before their SATs? She couldn’t wait three more years?】 【Trash. Thank God she’s gone, so Clara can step in and show them what a real home is like.】 The digital applause was still ringing when my phone buzzed. It was Linda. I put her on speakerphone, right as Hailey and Kayla walked into the room. “Clara, what the hell do you think you’re doing, feeding my daughters that garbage?” Linda’s voice was a shrill saw. “It’s full of chemicals! It’s terrible for them! I swear you’re doing this on purpose. From now on, I want you making them bone broth and salads. Five courses, one soup, every meal. And you’ll send me pictures to prove it!” I let a tear roll down my cheek, my voice trembling for the twins to hear. “Linda… how can you say that? I just… they looked so happy, I couldn’t bear to say no. If you’re really this worried about my care, you should come get them. You’re their mother, after all. I would never stand in your way.” 3 At my words, a flicker of hope ignited in the twins’ eyes. They were still just kids. Of course they wanted their mom. But Linda extinguished that hope with a single, brutal sentence. “Are you insane? I’m getting remarried. I can’t show up with two teenage burdens in tow. My fiancé has two sons of his own to think about! They are your responsibility now, so stop trying to dump them back on me.” The light in their eyes vanished. They stared at the floor, two identical statues of disappointment. I was a good person. I couldn’t stand to see children so unhappy. “Come on, girls,” I said, pulling them close. “Let’s get you something to cheer you up.” Standing in the bright, sterile light of the Apple Store, their eyes were like saucers. “Aunt Clara… are you serious?” Hailey breathed, stroking the sleek glass of the latest iPhone. “Mom said we couldn’t have phones until after we graduated,” Kayla added. “She said they’d be a distraction.” I looked from one hopeful face to the other. “Forget what she said. Do you want them?” They nodded so hard I thought their heads might fall off. A moment later, two new phones were paid for, and they were shrieking with joy. Another photo went up on Facebook. 【The girls need to do research for school, and I’m too old to help with their newfangled homework! Guess I’ll have to rely on technology to lend a hand. 】 The likes poured in. A cousin commented almost immediately: 【Clara, that’s so generous! Those are the newest models, that’s almost two grand right there!】 【Wow. You really do love them. Linda would never. She’s always dripping in gold jewelry, but she’d never spend that kind of money on her own kids.】 I refreshed the comments, waiting. Two minutes later, my phone rang. It was Linda. “Clara, you’ve gone too far!” 4 Again, I hit the speakerphone button. “Linda, what is it now? I was just afraid of them falling behind in school, so I got them a tool to help them study. What’s so wrong with that?” She was practically screaming. “Don’t play dumb with me! What do high schoolers need a phone for? It’s a one-way ticket to failing! Adults can’t even handle the addiction, how do you expect kids to?” They can’t, I thought. And that’s exactly the point. I needed to see if Linda would finally crack, if she would come and rescue her precious daughters from my “terrible” influence. In my first life, I truly believed she had abandoned them. But I was wrong. She had only outsourced the hardest three years. The moment I had single-handedly dragged the twins into a prestigious university, she had reappeared, weeping about how I’d stolen her children and prevented her from seeing them. I remembered the sting of their palms against my cheeks as they’d each slapped me. “We will never see you again for the rest of our lives,” they had vowed in front of all our relatives. “You vile old woman who kept us from our mother.” The irony had been crushing. It was Linda who had refused to visit, yet I was the one who paid the price. Now, I spoke into the phone, my voice full of feigned reasonableness. “Linda, you’re their mother. You know best. Like I said, if you think I’m doing a bad job, you are welcome to take them back at any time.” The twins held their breath, waiting. And again, their mother let them down. “Get lost! I told you, I have sons now. Don’t let them bother me! But as their mother, I can’t stand by and watch you ruin them. Take away their phones. Do you hear me?” I looked at the twins, my face a mask of conflict. “Well… what do we do? She’s your mom, and she’s forbidden it. I’m just your aunt, I don’t have the final say. Maybe you should give them to me.” They shook their heads frantically, clutching the phones to their chests. Hailey grabbed my phone and spoke into it. “Mom, it’s okay! Aunt Clara is great to us. We’ll only use the phones for homework, we promise!” “You girls…” Before Linda could finish, I ended the call. Watching them, heads bent, fingers flying across their new screens, I smiled. 5 The girls’ grades plummeted. They’d always been average students, B-minus kids at best. Last time, I had poured a fortune into their education. Tutors at $100 an hour. A forty-thousand-dollar intensive art program their senior year just to get their portfolios strong enough for a top-tier school. And at their graduation party, they’d complained that I’d turned them into study-machines, that I’d stolen their youth just so I could brag about them. So be it. This time, I gave them all the freedom in the world. All the fun. And none of the discipline. Let’s see what they had to complain about now. A call came from their guidance counselor. She wanted me to come into the school. I knew why. Their grades had crashed from the middle of the pack to dead last. Last time, I’d rushed over, panicked. After a long talk with the counselor, I’d concluded their mother’s abandonment had wounded their sensitive teenage souls. This time, I took a long, leisurely shower. I did my hair. I arrived just as the counselor was packing up for the day. The twins stood beside her desk, staring at their shoes. The counselor, clearly annoyed by my tardiness, tried to remain professional. “Mrs. Miller, do you have any idea how much your nieces’ schoolwork has declined? We need to have a serious talk about your home environment. High school is a critical time. Some students blossom, others… they fall off a cliff. You need to go home and have a very firm talk with them. They have potential.” I nodded earnestly. “You’re absolutely right, Ms. Davis.” “It’s not enough to agree with me, you need to act. You are their primary guardian. The responsibility falls on you.” Last time, I’d protected their fragile egos, saying nothing of their family situation. I’d gone home, hired tutors, and implemented a strict study schedule—for which I was later branded a tyrant. This time, I corrected her gently. “Actually, Ms. Davis, I’m not their guardian. I’m just their aunt. More like an unpaid nanny, really, just looking after their basic needs. When it comes to their academics, I’m afraid I’m out of my depth. I can’t force them. You see, I’m just their aunt. There are some lines I can’t cross. Perhaps you should call their mother? A word from a biological parent might carry more weight.” The counselor’s expression softened into pity. An aunt, struggling with two teenage nieces. How difficult. She immediately called Linda. Linda didn’t even let her finish before cutting her off. “My ex-husband and I are divorced. They’re not my problem anymore. Don’t call me again.” Click. Fuming, the counselor then called Mark. His response was even worse. “They’re living with their aunt now. From now on, you talk to her about everything. That includes school fees, by the way.” The counselor looked like she wanted to throw her phone against the wall. I glanced at the twins. Their faces were a mixture of shame, anger, and a profound, bottomless sadness. The sadness of children who have been truly abandoned. As I led them out of the school, I put a comforting arm around each of them. “Don’t you worry,” I said softly. “Even if no one else in the world wants you, your aunt will always be here for you.” Their eyes, which had always held a flicker of disdain for me, were now filled with a desperate gratitude. We walked in the door at home, and my son, Leo, was there. He was back from his first year of college. I knew, with a cold dread, that the nightmare from my past life was about to begin again. 6 Leo was home for spring break. Last time, he hadn’t known the girls were staying with us. He’d walked out of the bathroom after a shower wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts, toweling his hair dry. That single moment became the cornerstone of their accusation at the graduation party—the day my son began molesting them. This time, I had warned him. I told him his cousins were here and to be mindful. He walked in wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a book in his hand. He greeted Hailey and Kayla warmly; they’d grown up together, after all, with him being only three years their senior. Leo was a student at a top university, a fact I made sure to leverage. “You girls should ask your cousin for advice,” I said brightly. “He can give you all the tips for getting into a great school.” They nodded eagerly and were soon deep in conversation with him. I took the opportunity to snap another picture for my collection. 【A full house! So happy to have all my children under one roof. Feeling blessed!】 The family’s likes and heart emojis were immediate. I set my phone on the coffee table, expecting a call from Linda at any moment. But it didn’t come. I’d overlooked one crucial detail: in this life, the twins had phones of their own. I saw Kayla’s phone light up with a text. She and Hailey exchanged a look, then whispered as they scurried off to their bedroom, shutting the door behind them. Minutes later, a text message appeared on my own screen. It was from Linda. 【You bitch. You will not steal my daughters.】 My reply was the same as it always was. 【Linda, if you want them back, you only have to come and get them. I would never stop you.】 A few quiet days passed. I began to hope that maybe, just maybe, I had dodged the bullet this time. But on the morning Leo was scheduled to return to campus, the screaming started. Hailey and Kayla burst out of their room, hysterical, claiming my son had molested them. They swore he had snuck into their room during the night, that he had climbed into their bed. They were shaking, sobbing, invoking God as their witness. In my first life, I had been horrified. I’d screamed at Leo, who denied everything, his face a mask of shocked betrayal. Robert, hearing the accusation, had beaten our son senseless. Leo had left for school that day and hadn’t come home for three years. And still, after all that, the twins brought it up again at the party, cementing my son’s reputation as a predator and shattering our family for good. This time, I looked them dead in the eye, my voice dangerously calm. “Is that what really happened? Aunt Clara doesn’t like it when children lie.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394232”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was Mother’s Day, and a pop-up booth in the town square was running a bizarre promotion: “The Empathy Exchange.” My younger brother, Leo, just turned eighteen but with the maturity of a toddler, was whining for ice cream from their cart. “I’ll just take you to the supermarket next door,” I offered, trying to steer him away. But Mom stopped me. Her voice was sharp. “Why waste the money, Clara? Just trade your love. It’s free.” The words felt like a slap. I had to be sure I’d heard her right. “My love… for you?” She waved a dismissive hand, not even looking at me. “What am I going to do with that? It’s not like it pays the bills. At least this way, it’ll make your brother happy.” I glanced at the promotional banner, then back at my mother’s cold, expectant face. A strange calm washed over me. Fine. For the last time, I would give my mother exactly what she wanted. 1 “Are you certain you wish to exchange your daughter’s love for you for one scoop of ice cream?” the attendant asked, her tone professionally neutral. “Please be advised, all transactions at The Empathy Exchange are final and irreversible.” Mom nodded without a flicker of hesitation. “It’s just a feeling, an abstract concept. I’d rather have something tangible.” Her casual words were a slow, dull blade twisting in my chest. But then, after she took the clipboard with the consent forms, her expression soured. “On second thought, this is too much paperwork. Let’s go.” I knew it was only the bureaucracy that deterred her, but a pathetic sliver of hope still sparked within me. For a moment, I could pretend it was a sign that she couldn’t bear to part with it, with me. That hope was instantly crushed. Leo threw himself on the pavement, drumming his fists on the ground like a child. “I want the exchange ice cream! Ice cream! ICE CREAM!” I rushed to pull him up. “Leo, come on. I’ll buy you any flavor you want at the store.” But he wasn’t having it. He clung to Mom’s legs, his face screwed up in a theatrical wail. “No! I want this one! The one she has to trade for!” And then I understood. It wasn’t about the ice cream at all. It was about the trade. It was always about taking something from me. He’d been like this since he was born. The family vacation to Disney World I wasn’t allowed on because he “wouldn’t have fun” if I was there. My bedroom, which became his “storage space” for video games and junk, forcing me into the tiny, windowless den. Every time I dared to protest, every time my teenage heart broke with the injustice of it all, I was met with the same line from our mother: He’s your brother, Clara. Why can’t you just let him have it? This time was no different. Mom caved instantly. “Alright, alright, my sweet boy!” she cooed, helping him up. “Get up off that dirty ground, you’ll get germs on your new jeans, my little prince.” Once on his feet, Leo shot me a look of pure triumph. He mouthed the words, a silent, vicious taunt: See? Your love is worth a scoop. My fists clenched at my sides. Mom was already back in line. “What are you doing just standing there?” she snapped over her shoulder. “Get over here! I finally got him to calm down, don’t you dare set him off again.” I walked toward her in a daze, a single thought chanting in my head. It’s just a gimmick. It has to be. How could something as complex as love, an emotion forged over a lifetime of longing and pain, be extracted and bartered away by a machine? She must think it’s a joke, too. That’s why she agreed. My rationalizations shattered when the attendant spoke again, this time with a more serious edge. “Our process is powered by the latest in neural-cognitive technology, validated by over ten thousand clinical trials with MIT and the Stanford Research Institute. I must confirm one last time: you, Brenda, consent to exchanging your daughter Clara’s love for you for one serving of ice cream?” I saw the logos on the fine print now, and a clause stating the entire process would be live-streamed. The floor dropped out from under me. This was real. My love for my mother could actually vanish. For a scoop of ice cream. Before I could process the shock, Mom’s voice cut through the air, firm and resolute. “If it’s real, it’s real. As long as it makes my son happy, I’m willing. Nothing else matters.” 2 Nothing else matters. The phrase echoed in the sudden silence of my mind. To her, I was part of the “nothing else.” My eyes scanned the consent form again, catching a line of bold, red text at the very bottom I’d missed before: Upon successful completion of the transaction, all legal and emotional bonds of kinship between the parties will be terminated. My mother either didn’t see it or didn’t care. She signed her name with a flourish and shoved the clipboard at me, her eyes impatient. A bitter wave of nausea rose in my throat. It was the final, brutal confirmation. The unconditional love I had spent my entire life desperately seeking would never come from this woman. In that moment, letting it all disappear felt less like a loss and more like a cure. I took the pen and signed my name. We were led into a small building that was, in fact, a studio set, complete with cameras and a large screen displaying a live chat. Mom and I were guided to opposite sides of the stage, each stepping into a sleek, pod-like machine. A synthesized voice echoed through the studio. “We will now begin memory extraction. Our live online audience will vote in real-time to determine if this transaction is deemed equitable.” Mom balked, realizing this was a public spectacle. “Wait, this is going to be on the internet?” But Leo was ecstatic. “Mom, this is amazing!” he yelled from the side. “Look at the viewer count! Play your cards right and we could go viral! We could be influencers, start a family channel! We’d never have to worry about money again!” The prospect of fame and fortune instantly erased Mom’s hesitation. Her face lit up. The live chat was already scrolling rapidly. OMG, is this for real? Trading her daughter’s love for ice cream? IDK, maybe the daughter is a total nightmare. No mom would do this without a good reason. I agree. It’s not about the money for a scoop of ice cream. There has to be more to the story. The mom must have her reasons. The votes were split, hovering around 50/50. The voice explained that we could each select specific memories to share, to either encourage or discourage the transaction. Seeing the stalled vote and Leo’s anxious face, Mom quickly typed a date into her keypad. The large screen flickered to life, displaying her first chosen memory. I was a small child, maybe five years old. A dinner table was overturned, food splattered across the floor. I was sobbing. “See what you did? Now no one gets to eat,” Mom’s voice said, sharp and angry. “Girls are so much trouble,” came my father’s sigh from off-screen. “Always so dramatic.” “This is the third time this month!” my nana chimed in. “When are you going to learn to behave?” The memory was from my mother’s perspective, her view of the three of them frowning down at me. My younger self, overwhelmed by their criticism, choked back her sobs and stared at the floor in shame. In the background, Leo’s infant cries grew louder and louder. The clip ended. The live chat exploded. Called it. She’s been a problem child from the start. Yeah, that love is probably worth less than a scoop of ice cream, LOL. She’s just a little kid. All kids have tantrums. Not like that. Overturning the table multiple times? Sounds like she’s got serious anger issues. The poll shifted. The “Approve Transaction” vote climbed to fifty-five percent. Leo gave Mom a thumbs-up, urging her to press her advantage. 3 Mom eagerly entered a second date. The screen now showed me as a teenager. Once again, the scene was one of chaos. But this time, it wasn’t the dining room. It was my bedroom—or what used to be my bedroom. Clothes, books, and shattered picture frames littered the floor. My nana stood in the doorway, brandishing a broom like a weapon. “You destructive brat! All you do is torment your brother! Look at this mess you made!” My dad, lounging on the living room sofa, didn’t even look up from his phone. “Can’t I have one day of peace in this house? I work myself to the bone all day, and I come home to this drama. Just for one day, can you not be a problem?” Then Mom appeared. She grabbed me by the sleeve of my t-shirt and threw me to the floor amidst the wreckage. “You’re not getting a bite of dinner until you clean up every last piece of this yourself!” As she turned away, the sound of a young boy’s crying could be heard. Mom’s entire demeanor softened. She rushed to Leo, scooping him into a hug. “There, there, my sweet boy. She’s just being awful. Don’t you cry.” The video stopped. The users who had called me a problem were now in a frenzy. See! I knew it! There’s no such thing as a bad mom, only a bad kid! First the table, now she’s trashing the house. This family has put up with enough. I’d trade her for ice cream too. A few dissenting voices tried to break through. Maybe there was a reason for it… Doesn’t a child’s behavior reflect on the parents? The vote count crept up slowly, but the viewer numbers were skyrocketing. The audience was hooked. Leo, seeing the momentum, scurried over to Mom. “Mom, forget the ice cream,” he whispered urgently. “This is about our reputation now! If we play this right, we can get brand deals. I could get you, Dad, and Nana a big new house. We could travel anywhere. I’ll marry a model, give you a dozen grandkids.” Mom’s face softened, captivated by the future Leo was painting for her. A smile bloomed on her lips. But when she turned her gaze back to me, her eyes were filled with a chilling, raw animosity. My heart seized. In that look, I wasn’t her daughter. I was her enemy. An obstacle. I just want you to love me, I wanted to scream. I’m not trying to hurt you. But the message didn’t reach her. As she raised her hand to select another memory, I couldn’t stop a desperate cry from escaping my lips. “Mom!” She heard me. Her eyes flashed with fury. “Don’t you ‘Mom’ me! Our lives would be peaceful if it weren’t for you! You’re a little storm that never stops raging! First the tantrums, then the destruction, always bullying your brother! Do you have any idea how good you have it?” Her voice cracked, and she covered her face, her shoulders shaking with manufactured sobs. “We gave you everything. A roof over your head, food on the table, sent you to school. And what have you ever done for this family in return?” The live chat erupted. She sounds completely ungrateful. Her parents aren’t rich, but they’re providing for her. Seriously. Kids today are so entitled. She was born into a good home and doesn’t even know it. I stood frozen, the injustice a thick, bitter pill I couldn’t swallow. The words were there, lodged in my throat, but her accusations had stolen my breath. The approval rating for the transaction shot up to seventy percent. 4 A triumphant smile spread across my mother’s face. I couldn’t smile. It took every ounce of my strength to keep the tears from falling. It was a reflex, a survival mechanism honed over years. Mom hated it when I cried. So, no matter how deep the wound, I learned to hold it in. This time, however, my tear-filled eyes met only her cold, contemptuous stare. There was no pity, no flicker of compassion. She looked at me as if I were a stranger she despised. Then, a few different comments bubbled up in the live chat. Wait a second… if she’s so violent and angry, why hasn’t she said a single harsh word back to her mom this whole time? Good point. She’s just been standing there with her head down. Doesn’t seem like the type to trash a room. And those videos… they only show the aftermath. We never saw what actually happened. Feels like there’s a piece missing. Mom saw the comments, and her smile tightened. She turned to me, her voice deceptively calm. “Clara, tell them yourself. Was the dinner table overturned because of you? Was the room trashed because of you?” I looked up at her, my heart pounding. Her gaze wasn’t a question. It was a threat. A command. I dropped my eyes back to the floor, unable to bear the weight of her stare. It was her signature move. She didn’t have to raise her voice or a hand. Just that quiet, unrelenting pressure was enough to make me fold. It was a habit I couldn’t break, this desperate craving for her approval that made me betray myself again and again. But this time, I didn’t want to. I wanted to scream the truth. Yet my throat was tight, clogged with unspoken words. Seeing my silence, she pressed on, her voice ringing through the studio. “Was the table overturned because of you?” “Was the room trashed because of you?” Her calm, rhythmic questions felt like stones being dropped on my head, one by one. I couldn’t breathe. The second time she asked, my defenses crumbled. A tiny, defeated whisper escaped my lips. “It was because of me.” The poll instantly jumped to eighty percent. Mom and Leo exchanged a triumphant grin. The live chat was a waterfall of condemnation. See? Admitted it herself. Probably has Borderline Personality Disorder. Look at what she’s wearing. A tank top. She’s just looking for attention. Total train wreck. The ice cream is a better deal. The votes kept climbing, and the insults kept coming. I felt a coldness spread through me that had nothing to do with the studio’s air conditioning. Just as Mom and Leo were basking in their victory, the synthesized voice spoke again. “Switching perspectives. Now extracting memories from Clara’s file.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394231”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first thing I smelled was the beast—a rank, feral odor of wet fur, pine, and decay that suffocated the air. From the roof of Mayor Thompson’s house, I saw it all. A brown bear, impossibly large, stood on its hind legs at our front gate, a creature torn from a nightmare. It dwarfed our small home, its jaws stretched in a silent roar as its claws tore splinters from the groaning wood. Inside the yard, my grandmother was a crumpled heap on the ground, her face a mask of pure terror. “Elara, you have to do something!” Mayor Thompson urged, his hand gripping my shoulder. “Your parents are rangers, they have rifles! Go get them!” His words were a shove, waking me from my shock. The scent of the bear mixed with the sudden, sharp memory of another life. A life where I had run. A life where I had saved them, only to be destroyed. Last time, I’d scrambled up that mountain in the dark, my heart hammering with a desperate need to be the hero. I found them helping my sister, Mila, track rabbits by moonlight. They came back, killed the bear, and the whole town celebrated. They were given medals, a new house in town. But Mila, who had thrown a tantrum and refused to leave the woods, was found in pieces, torn apart by wolves. They told everyone she was reckless, that it was her own fault. But on the anniversary of her death, they dragged me back to that same mountain, tied me to a tree, and left me for the starving pack. “You little monster,” my father had hissed, his face a cruel mask in the moonlight. “Don’t think we don’t know. You led that bear here on purpose.” “You murdered your sister,” my mother had whispered, her voice colder than the grave. “This is what you deserve.” Reborn into this moment, I wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time, I wouldn’t run to them. This time, Mila could have her fun on the mountain. But as the bear savaged our gate and my grandmother wept, my father’s words from this new life echoed in my ears. He’d refused to come down. He’d told the villagers I was lying, just trying to ruin Mila’s birthday. And now, while my parents celebrated her, a monster was tearing our world apart. “Mayor Thompson,” I said, my voice trembling as tears stung my eyes. “My parents… they hate me. They won’t believe a word I say.” A heavy silence fell over the rooftop. Everyone in our small, isolated town knew it was true. I was Elara, the daughter they never wanted. The girl born instead of a son, the one they blamed for my mother’s weakened health, for every bad harvest, every stroke of misfortune. I was the family’s shadow. Mila, on the other hand, was their sun. The treasured one they’d take into the wolf-haunted woods at night just to catch a rabbit for her stew. The men on the roof exchanged uneasy glances. “She’s just a kid,” one of them finally muttered. “It’s not safe to send her.” “Alright,” the Mayor declared, his voice firm. “A few of you younger men, grab torches. We’re going ourselves.” As they slipped out the back, the rest of us on the roof started shouting and banging, trying to draw the bear’s attention. It worked, for a moment. The men vanished into the trees as the bear turned its massive head towards us, its dark eyes filled with a primal rage. But then, as if remembering its purpose, it turned back and slammed its body against the gate. My grandmother, Gran, had been chased all the way from the woods. Her strength was gone. She curled into a ball, hiding her face, a tiny, fragile thing against the looming specter of death. I watched the mountain path, praying the men would return with my parents, praying they could save the only person who had ever truly loved me. They returned near dusk, their faces grim with failure and disgust. “That Cole is a real piece of work,” one of them spat. “He said we were lying. Said Elara put us up to it, just to ruin Mila’s birthday!” A shard of ice pierced my heart. Mila and I shared a birthday. Every year, our parents would make her a special breakfast with two wild bird eggs. I got nothing. When I grew older, I was the one who had to cook it for her. I’d prepared that meal for years, but I’d never once dared to taste it. From the yard below, Gran must have heard. Trembling, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen. She emerged a moment later holding a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, which she carefully unfolded for me to see from the roof. “Don’t be sad, Elara,” she called out, her voice thin but clear. “They won’t give you anything, but Gran will.” Inside the cloth were white flour and two perfect, speckled eggs. My tears, hot and sudden, blinded me. In our house, where my parents rationed every scrap of food for Gran and me, this was a treasure. How long had she saved this, going hungry herself, just for me? A raw sob escaped my throat. I broke free from the Mayor’s grip and scrambled for the ladder. The villagers knew how close Gran and I were; they’d been holding me back, afraid I’d do something foolish. “Elara, stop!” someone shouted, grabbing my arm. “You’re a child! You can’t even kill a chicken. We can’t watch you go down there to die!” Gran heard them and shrieked, her voice a blade of panic. “Elara, no! I’m an old woman, it doesn’t matter if I die! Don’t you dare! Stay where you are!” My heart felt like it was being torn in two. “Gran,” I choked out, “I wouldn’t have survived without you. I won’t do anything stupid. Trust me!” I looked at the men holding me, my eyes pleading. “Let me go. I have to save her.” My desperation must have convinced them. I wasn’t just hysterical; I had a plan. “It was like this last time,” I explained, the words rushing out. “The bear… it didn’t attack anyone else on the road. It ignored them. It followed Gran right to our yard, and it won’t leave. There’s something in that house it wants.” The stark, terrifying logic settled over them. The gate was splintering. There was no more time. The Mayor made a decision. He would have the others create a diversion while I, small and fast, would circle around and slip through the old doggy door in the back fence. Hands lifted me over the wall. The moment my feet hit the dirt, I ran. A few of the farmhands followed with a ladder, their heavy boots thudding behind me. The bear, obsessed with the front gate, didn’t even notice. We reached the back of my house. I told the men to hide in the neighbor’s shed, then dropped to my hands and knees and crawled through the narrow opening. “You foolish child!” Gran sobbed, pulling me into a fierce hug. “Why did you come back?” “No time,” I gasped, pulling her towards the back fence. “Gran, you have to climb. Step on my shoulders. When you’re safe, I can get out.” She beat her chest in anguish, silent words of protest dying on her lips. A thunderous crash from the front told us the gate had finally given way. “Now, Gran, please!” I knelt, turning my back to the wall. “They’re waiting. If you don’t go, we’ll both die here!” With a shuddering breath, she placed a worn shoe on my shoulder. The weight made me buckle, but I grit my teeth and pushed myself up, shaking, until she could grab the top of the fence. Strong hands reached down from the other side, pulling her up and over to safety. Relieved, I immediately began searching the house. Something was drawing the bear here. But what? We were poor. The only meat we had was jerky from two years ago. It couldn’t be that. CRACK. The front door was splintering now. My heart hammered. I forced myself to be calm, scanning the yard. Where could something be hidden? From over the fence, Gran’s voice called out, filled with desperate hope. “Elara! They’re taking me up the mountain! You hide, sweetheart! I’ll be back with the rifles soon! Just hide!” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. As she left, a strange scratching sound came from the large ceramic pickling crock near the back door. My hands trembling, I lifted the heavy wooden lid. And froze. Curled at the bottom was a tiny bear cub. It was small, barely weaned, its dark eyes blinking up at me without a trace of aggression. My blood ran cold. Why was a bear cub in our pickling crock?

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394230”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Julian Croft demanded my kidney to save the woman he’d always loved—the ghost of a past he could never escape. He didn’t care that I was newly pregnant with his child. There, on the deck of his gleaming yacht, with the whole world watching, he destroyed me. “You were always just a stand-in,” he said, his voice cutting through the night air. “Your only purpose was her.” My hand instinctively flew to my belly, a desperate shield for the life he’d just condemned. A broken, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Loving you, Julian,” I said, my voice shaking with the force of my shattered heart, “was the greatest regret of my life.” And with his name as a curse on my tongue, I threw myself into the black, unforgiving sea. He wanted my kidney. He could dream on. Chapter 1 The crystal flutes of champagne on the grand yacht felt like ice against my feverish skin. Julian Croft, my Julian, had his arm locked around my waist, a possessive anchor in a sea of glittering philanthropists and corporate sharks. He led me to the small stage at the center of the deck, the Miami skyline a dazzling, indifferent backdrop against the night. His voice, amplified by the microphone, was the smooth, confident baritone that had first ensnared me three years ago. “Thank you all for joining us tonight. As the head of the Croft Corporation, it’s my honor to host this charity gala. But tonight, I have a more… personal announcement to make.” My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird against its cage. This is it, I thought, a dizzying wave of hope washing over me. After all the waiting, all the whispered promises in the dark. This is the moment it all becomes real. Julian turned to me. His eyes—usually a clear, piercing blue—were clouded with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. It looked terrifyingly like regret. “You all know Elara Vance,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the silent, expectant crowd. “For three years, she has been the quiet strength at my side, supporting my vision.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a shroud. “Tonight, she will demonstrate that selflessness once more.” I blinked, a knot of confusion tightening in my gut. Selflessness? What is he talking about? “An old and dear friend of mine, Miss Seraphina Thorne, is in dire need.” His voice was low, laced with a gravity that sent a chill through my very bones. “Her life is in jeopardy. She needs a kidney transplant. After extensive testing, we discovered a perfect match.” The world tilted on its axis. A roaring filled my ears, drowning out the gentle lap of the waves against the hull. I took an involuntary step back, the movement clumsy and graceless. “Julian… what are you saying?” My voice was a choked whisper. He ignored me, his focus entirely on his audience. “As the centerpiece of this evening’s charitable endeavors, I am proud to announce that Elara Vance has agreed to donate one of her kidneys to Miss Seraphina Thorne. The surgery is scheduled for this coming Monday.” A wave of applause erupted, a thunderous roar of approval for a sacrifice I had never agreed to make. The faces around me blurred into a kaleidoscope of polite smiles and admiring glances. I felt as though I’d been struck. “Julian, are you insane?” I hissed, grabbing his arm. “You want me to give my kidney to her?” His eyes finally met mine, and they were as cold and unforgiving as a winter sea. “This isn’t a discussion, Elara,” he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “It’s a notification.” “I won’t do it!” I shot back, my voice rising with panic and rage. “What gives you the right to make this decision for me?” His gaze sharpened, cutting through me like a shard of glass. “The right? The fact that you’re her stand-in, Elara. You exist for her. That was always the arrangement.” Chapter 2 The words weren’t just a knife; they were the deliberate, twisting turn of the blade in an open wound. I knew, of course, about the ghost in his past, the woman whose shadow fell over every corner of our lives. But to hear him say it so bluntly—that I was nothing more than a placeholder… the pain was a physical thing, a crushing weight on my chest. “So that’s all this was?” I whispered, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a hollow, cavernous ache. “Three years. Was I just a substitute?” He didn’t have to answer. His silence was a confession, more brutal than any words could ever be. Just then, a figure emerged from the crowd and glided onto the stage. Seraphina Thorne. She was exactly as I’d imagined—ethereal, fragile, with wide, doe-like eyes that radiated a practiced innocence. “Julian, darling, don’t be so harsh,” she said, her voice a soft, manipulative melody. She placed a delicate hand on his arm. “If Miss Vance is unwilling, it’s alright. I can wait for another donor.” I shot her a glare, my voice dripping with ice. “You don’t look like someone in desperate need of a transplant.” A flicker of panic crossed her features before being swiftly replaced by a mask of heartbreaking vulnerability. “The doctors… they say I might not have more than a month.” Julian squeezed her hand, his protective gaze fixed on her before turning back to me, his expression hard as granite. “Elara, you have no choice. Pack a bag. You’ll be at the hospital tomorrow for pre-operative tests.” I looked directly into his cold, unfeeling eyes and played my final card. “I can’t have the surgery,” I said, my voice clear and steady despite the tremor in my soul. “I’m pregnant.” A hush fell over the gala. Every eye was on us. Julian’s face went rigid. For a single, fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes—shock? Fear? It was gone as quickly as it came. After a beat of suffocating silence, he spoke. “Then it’s for the best. That child should never have existed in the first place.” That was it. The last, fragile thread of hope I’d been clinging to snapped. Three years of my life, my love, my devotion… all for this. For nothing. “You’re a monster, Julian,” I choked out. Spinning on my heel, I shoved through the stunned guests, ignoring their gasps and murmurs. I ran, my only thought to escape the suffocating weight of his cruelty. I fled toward the yacht’s railing, toward the vast, dark emptiness of the ocean. “Elara, get back here!” Julian’s furious roar followed me, along with the sound of panicked commotion. I scrambled onto the railing, the wind whipping my gown around me. I turned to face him as he skidded to a halt. A bitter, broken smile touched my lips. “Tell me, Julian,” I asked, my voice cutting through the wind. “Did you ever, for even a moment, love me?” His composure finally cracked. A flicker of turmoil crossed his face before the mask of indifference slammed back into place. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice strained. “Your purpose was always for Seraphina.” I laughed, a sound raw and despairing. Seraphina drifted closer, her face a perfect portrait of concern. “Miss Vance, please don’t do something foolish. Julian is just worried about me. Come down.” “Shut up!” I screamed, the venom in my voice making her flinch. “You think I can’t see your pathetic act? You’re not sick. You’ve never been sick, have you?” Her face paled. She shot a panicked look at Julian. “Julian, she’s lost her mind.” He took a cautious step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Elara, stop this.” Looking at him then, at his cold, handsome face, I felt a sudden, chilling clarity. It was all so laughable. Three years of my life, wasted on a man who couldn’t see past the ghost of a manipulative woman playing pretend. I took a deep breath, the salt spray cool on my face. “Julian Croft,” I said, my voice ringing with a devastating finality, “the greatest regret of my life is that I ever loved you.” And with that, I let go. I tilted backward, surrendering myself to the black, churning water below. “NO!” A guttural, soul-shattering roar tore from Julian’s throat. He lunged, his fingers grasping at empty air as I fell. As the icy shock of the Atlantic consumed me, a single, burning vow formed in my mind. If I survive this, I will make them pay. I will make them both pay for everything. Chapter 3 I didn’t die. I was pulled from the merciless grip of the ocean by Damian Kade, the enigmatic CEO of Kade Pharmaceuticals, whose boat had been passing nearby. Five years. Five years is a long time. Long enough for a broken woman named Elara Vance to perish and for Eris, one of the world’s most celebrated jewelry designers, to be born from her ashes. Now, it was time for my encore. I stood at the entrance to the International Business Summit Gala, my hand resting on Damian’s arm. The deep red of my gown was the color of vengeance. “Ready?” Damian murmured, his voice a low vibration beside my ear. I inclined my head, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across my lips. “Five years in the making, Damian. The curtain is finally going up.” We entered the ballroom, a grand space teeming with the world’s financial elite. My eyes scanned the crowd until they found him. Julian Croft. He stood in a small circle of men, looking older, harder, but just as commanding. I plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and began to move in his direction, my path casual, indirect. As I drew near, I “accidentally” caught my heel on the hem of my dress, stumbling with a small, theatrical gasp. A server nearby steadied me. “Ma’am, are you alright?” The small commotion was enough. It drew the attention of those nearby, including Julian. I straightened up, offering a polite smile. “Thank you, I’m fine.” The moment Julian’s eyes landed on my face, I saw it. The fractional widening of his pupils. The sudden tension in his jaw. The wine glass in his hand trembled. He excused himself and moved toward me, his gaze locked on mine. The hatred that surged through me was a cold, pure fire. I banked it, forcing a serene, slightly curious smile. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “Have we met?” “Julian Croft,” he managed, his voice rough. His eyes searched my face, desperately looking for a trace of the woman he had destroyed. But five years, a new country, and a subtle surgeon had changed me. I was a ghost wearing a familiar-ish face. My smile widened. “Mr. Croft. A pleasure. I’ve heard of your work. I’m Eris.” Just then, Damian arrived at my side. I looped my arm through his, leaning against him with an air of easy intimacy. “And this is my husband, Damian Kade.” Damian extended a hand, his expression coolly polite. “Mr. Croft. A pleasure.” Julian looked from Damian to me, his eyes now glacial. As their hands met, I saw a faint tremor in Julian’s. A flicker of satisfaction warmed me. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Croft,” I said, “we have some people to see.” As Damian and I turned to leave, Julian’s hand shot out, his fingers closing around my wrist. The touch was like a brand. “Miss Eris,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Is there another name you’ve gone by? Perhaps… Elara?” Chapter 4 I gently extricated my wrist from his grasp, my expression one of polite confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Mr. Croft,” I said smoothly. “I’ve lived in Europe my entire life. This month is my first time back in the States.” Without giving him a chance to press further, I turned and walked away, Damian’s hand a steady presence at the small of my back. For the rest of the evening, I felt Julian’s eyes on me, a relentless, burning gaze. I made sure to give him a good show, laughing intimately with Damian, touching his arm, projecting the perfect image of a happily married woman. As the gala began to wind down, the side doors of the ballroom burst open. A small boy, no older than four, came running in, his dark hair flying. He made a beeline straight for me. “Mommy!” he cried, his voice clear and bright. I knelt, catching him in my arms as Julian watched from across the room, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. A small, triumphant smile played on my lips, hidden by the boy’s embrace. Later, as Damian drove us away, a figure emerged from the shadows. Julian. He ran to the car, rapping his knuckles sharply on the tinted window. “Eris! We need to talk!” His voice was ragged, desperate. The window slid down silently, revealing my impassive profile. “Is there a problem, Mr. Croft?” His eyes darted from me to the child in the backseat. “That boy,” he began, his voice cracking. “Is he…” Damian cut him off, his tone laced with steel. “You seem to have a great deal of interest in my son, Croft.” Julian’s face darkened. A smirk touched my lips. “If that’s all, Mr. Croft, we really must be going.” The window glided up, sealing him out. The black sedan pulled away, leaving Julian standing alone in the cool night air, looking like a man who had seen a ghost. Damian glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “The plan is working perfectly. He’s already questioning Leo’s parentage.” I looked down, stroking my son’s soft hair as he slept. “Yes,” I said softly. “So perfectly it’s almost unsettling.” “Don’t worry,” Damian’s voice was a warm, steady anchor. “Whatever happens, I’m with you.” I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the plush leather. The gears of my revenge were turning. The agony Julian Croft had inflicted upon me would be returned to him, piece by agonizing piece. Chapter 5 To confirm his suspicions, Julian invested in my jewelry brand. At the signing ceremony, I extended my hand, my smile a carefully constructed work of art. “Mr. Croft, I had no idea you had an interest in haute couture jewelry.” His hand closed over mine, the contact brief but charged with a nervous energy I could feel. His pale eyes held a practiced smile. “Miss Eris, I’m particularly fascinated by the philosophy behind your ‘Rebirth’ collection.” My own smile tightened for a fraction of a second. “The ‘Rebirth’ collection was born from a period of significant personal upheaval,” I explained coolly. “It explores the relationship between destruction and new beginnings.” He leaned forward, his curiosity a palpable force. “Could you elaborate on this… upheaval?” I offered him a polite, distant smile. “My apologies, but that’s a private matter.” For the next half hour, we discussed business, but I felt his gaze drift repeatedly to my right wrist. He was looking for the faint, silvery scar from a childhood accident—a scar I’d had a plastic surgeon erase two years ago. After the contracts were signed, he asked, “Miss Eris, would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?” “I’m sorry,” I replied, my tone professionally apologetic. “I have to pick up my son from preschool. Perhaps another time.” At the mention of my son, Julian’s expression shifted. “How old is he?” I paused as if calculating. “He’s four.” As I left, I saw his face in profile. His eyes were downcast, his features etched with a profound and complicated sorrow. The next morning, while I was sketching in my studio, Damian burst in. “He did it,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Julian went to Leo’s preschool. He had someone retrieve a straw Leo used.” I put down my charcoal pencil. “The fish has taken the bait,” I said calmly. “Is everything arranged?” Damian nodded, a grim smile on his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394229”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The Vance family’s generosity was the only reason I was standing on the manicured lawns of Atherton University instead of waiting tables back home. My scholarship, their name on the letterhead. I felt a profound sense of obligation, a debt that couldn’t be repaid with a simple thank-you note. I had to find their son, Caleb Vance, and thank him in person. I found him holding court by the basketball courts, the afternoon sun glinting off his perfect teeth. He was surrounded by a crew of guys who all looked like they’d stepped out of a cologne ad. Unsure which one was him, I approached the group cautiously. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice smaller than I’d intended. “I’m looking for Caleb Vance.” A wave of smirks went through the circle. “Another one, Cal,” someone drawled. “You’re in demand.” A guy in a crisp white jersey, lazily spinning a basketball on his finger, finally turned his attention to me. “What’s your business with him?” “I’m… I’m a scholarship student. The Vance family is my sponsor,” I explained, the words feeling clumsy as their eyes scanned me from head to toe. I suddenly felt hyper-aware of my secondhand clothes, the worn fabric of my jeans. “Without them, I couldn’t be here. I just wanted to thank him.” The guy in white—Caleb, I presumed—didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on my faded jeans for a moment too long, a flicker of something dismissive in his eyes. “I’m not him,” he said flatly. He jerked his chin toward a figure sitting alone on the bleachers, away from the group. “That’s Caleb Vance.” I turned. The man he pointed to was tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of quiet intensity that seemed to repel the boisterous energy of the others. His dark hair fell over a pair of cool, distant eyes. A thin, white scar cut from his jawline down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. He looked… dangerous. Not at all what I had pictured. Still, this was my benefactor. I walked over and gave a small, respectful bow. “Thank you,” I said earnestly. “For everything your family has done for me. If there is ever anything I can do to repay your kindness, please, don’t hesitate to ask.” Behind me, the group of guys erupted into laughter. I flushed, confused. Had I said something wrong? “What’s your name?” the man—”Caleb”—asked. His voice was a low rumble. “Ava. Ava Monroe.” “And you want to repay this debt?” “Yes. Absolutely.” “Alright,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Give me your number.” The laughter from the court instantly died. Everyone fell silent. The real Caleb narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing, man?” “Just in case I need her,” the scarred man replied without looking up. “Whatever, dude.” Caleb shrugged and jogged onto the court. A moment later, a basketball came flying directly at my head. I was still typing my number into the phone and didn’t see it coming. There was no time to react. Suddenly, a strong arm yanked me backward, pulling me flush against a hard chest. The man who called himself Caleb raised his other arm, and the ball slammed into his forearm with a sickening thud. The real Caleb froze, his face paling. “Julian… man, you okay?” “I’m fine,” the man—Julian—said, his voice tight. He shook his arm out. “Watch your aim.” “My bad, my bad,” Caleb said, then he glared at me. “And you, didn’t you see it coming? Learn to duck.” “Excuse me?” I bristled, stepping out from behind Julian. “You’re blaming me for your terrible throw? How about you learn some accountability?” Caleb stared, clearly shocked that I’d talked back. Beside me, I heard Julian let out a low, muffled chuckle. But when I glanced up at him, his face was as cold and unreadable as before. The sound must have been my imagination. “Are you sure you don’t need to see the nurse?” I asked him, concerned. “I’m fine.” He rotated his arm to prove it. “Thank you,” I said, my gratitude deepening. “Your parents gave me an education, and now you’ve saved me from a concussion. I’m even more in your debt.” From the court, the real Caleb let out a derisive snort. What a jerk. After confirming Julian was really okay, I left. But I didn’t go far. I went to the campus store and bought a bottle of water, planning to bring it back as a small gesture. I took a shortcut and came up behind the bleachers, where I could hear them talking before they could see me. “Why’d you lie to her, Caleb?” someone asked. Caleb, the real Caleb, answered with a bored sigh as he bounced the ball. “It’s a hassle. If she knew who I was, she’d be latching on, trying to ‘repay’ me 24/7. It’s exhausting.” I froze, hidden behind the metal frame. “But Julian’s different,” Caleb continued, a cruel amusement in his tone. “He’s intense. He scares everyone. She’ll be so intimidated, she’ll be gone within three days.” The group laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “I’ve seen her type a million times,” Caleb said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Poor, calculating. She says ‘thank you,’ but she means ‘how can I sleep my way into your bank account?’ Pathetic. Not my scene.” He paused, and his next words felt like a slap. “Ava Monroe, right? I remember the name. My dad transferred an extra grand to my account before the semester started, told me to add it to her meal card. I never did.” “Why not?” “Campus food is already dirt cheap. If you can’t even afford that, what are you doing at Atherton?” Caleb said with a shrug. “Besides, the money’s gone. I used it for that tasting menu at The Laurel last night.” “Hell yeah, thanks for that, man!” “All good,” Caleb said. He sank a three-pointer with effortless grace. “And she wears that mask all the time. Bet she’s hiding a face only a mother could love.” I unconsciously touched the surgical mask I was wearing. The truth was, I’d had an allergic reaction to the city’s pollen, and my face was covered in a rash. “Caleb’s the pickiest bastard I know,” one of his friends chimed in. “That’s why he’s still single. No one’s good enough for him.” Caleb just laughed, then turned to the silent man on the bleachers. “Sorry to dump that on you, Julian. Feel free to delete her number right now. Get her off your hands.” The man who had saved me, the one I thought was my benefactor, finally spoke. His voice was quiet but carried an undeniable weight. “I don’t find it a hassle.” Back in my dorm, a quick search on the university’s student portal confirmed everything. The arrogant jerk was Caleb Vance. His friend, the one with the scar, was Julian Croft. “Ava, how do you know Julian Croft?” my roommate, Chloe, asked, her eyes wide with alarm when I mentioned his name. “What’s wrong with him?” “He’s… intense,” she said, lowering her voice. “The Crofts are one of the most powerful families in the state. Rumor is they have ties to… well, everything. People say Julian put a guy in the hospital last year. He’s the one person on this campus you do not want to cross.” My blood ran cold. Maybe I should just delete his number and disappear. Just as the thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. Julian Croft: We need to talk. Dinner tonight. I wanted to say no. I wanted to block him. But then I remembered the solid feel of his arm shielding me, the deafening impact of the basketball. He had protected me. The least I could do was hear him out. I had no idea what I was walking into. The first words out of his mouth when we sat down at a quiet off-campus diner were not what I expected. “First,” he said, his voice as cool and crisp as a mountain stream, “I need to apologize. I’m not Caleb Vance.” He met my gaze directly, and the intensity I saw there made it hard to breathe. “I thought it was better to clear this up in person. My name is Julian Croft. The guy in the white jersey today, that was Caleb.” I tucked my chin down. “I… I know.” “When did you find out?” he asked, one eyebrow raising slightly. It felt like an interrogation. How could one person command so much presence without even trying? “I asked Chloe when I got back to the dorm. She showed me a picture.” “Are you afraid of me?” Yes, who wouldn’t be? I thought, but I didn’t dare say it aloud. “You weren’t so timid when you were telling Caleb off today,” he observed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Was he here to punish me on Caleb’s behalf? I immediately panicked. “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again!” “That’s… not what I meant,” Julian said, looking slightly frustrated. He reached for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket, glanced at me, and then shoved them back into his pocket. “Look, my advice is to forget about Caleb. The people who sponsored you were his parents. If you feel a sense of gratitude, direct it toward them.” “I understand,” I mumbled, focusing on pushing my food around my plate. The scar on his jaw seemed more pronounced in the diner’s low light. It was intimidating. After a long silence, he said my name. “Ava.” I jumped. “Yes!” “If you’re so scared of me, why did you agree to come tonight?” He had me there. I reached into my bag and pulled out a small box. “I almost forgot. This is for you. It’s a muscle relief balm. And… thank you, for today.” He took the box, looking surprised. “For me?” “Yes.” “That’s thoughtful.” I took a deep breath. “If there’s nothing else, I should probably get going…” “I’m not finished.” “Oh. Okay.” “I saved you today,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. “Doesn’t that mean you owe me a debt, too?” “Y-yes, of course. What can I do?” Julian leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Go out with me.” The walk back to my dorm was a blur. It felt like I was floating in a dream. Julian was a campus legend, and walking beside me, he drew stares from everyone we passed. I became an object of intense curiosity. When we reached my building, I turned to him, my posture stiff. “Well, I’m heading up.” I started to turn away, desperate to escape into the safety of the dorm. “That’s it?” Julian’s voice stopped me. “Not how a girlfriend is supposed to act.” My head whipped around, and I frantically scanned the area. Thankfully, no one was around to hear him. Yes. I had said yes. I’m still not entirely sure why. Maybe it was the startling sincerity in his eyes when he asked. Maybe it was because I genuinely wanted to thank him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was a way to prove to myself, and to the ghost of Caleb’s cruel words, that I had no intention of seducing anyone. Whatever the reason, the word had just… fallen out of my mouth. “How am I supposed to act?” I whispered, my cheeks burning. “I’ve never… done this before.” He took a step closer and tapped his cheek. “Kiss me goodnight.” I froze. “No? Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “My turn, then.” Before I could process what he meant, he closed the distance between us, tilted his head, and pressed his lips to mine. My brain short-circuited. My lips were sealed shut, my body rigid with shock. But he wasn’t demanding. He simply moved his mouth against mine, a soft, exploratory pressure, as if savoring a dessert. It was surprisingly gentle. After a few moments, my knees started to feel weak. When he finally pulled back, I heard him let out a soft, satisfied sigh. “Been wanting to do that,” he murmured. “…What?” “Nothing.” He reached up and gently wiped a trace of moisture from my bottom lip with his thumb. The simple, intimate gesture scrambled my thoughts completely. He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Next time, Ava,” he whispered, “open your mouth.” Julian, it turned out, moved at his own pace. Every day, a “good morning” text, a “good night” call. He’d let me know where he was going, as if I were already an integral part of his life. But he never pushed for more. I appreciated the rhythm, the space he gave me. He was probably just amusing himself, I thought. When he got bored, he’d dump me, and my debt would be paid. Simple. Except it wasn’t. He deposited ten thousand dollars onto my meal card. Ten thousand dollars. For cafeteria food. The number was so absurd it didn’t feel real. I was so confused. Who was repaying whom here? I never sought out Caleb again. I decided I would repay his parents directly, once I had a job and my own money. A month passed. The rhythm of university life became familiar. Just before the fall break, the Fashion Design department put out a call for models for a small student showcase. The rumor was that the catering was amazing, so Chloe and I went to the tryouts on a whim. It was simple enough. Put on the student-designed dresses, let them see how they looked. My rash had finally cleared up, and Chloe had worked some magic with a little makeup. I stepped out from behind the screen in a simple, elegant evening gown and saw him immediately. Caleb Vance. He was sitting on a table, tossing a basketball against the wall. “Wow, that dress looks incredible on you!” one of the senior students exclaimed. Her voice made Caleb turn his head. He stopped bouncing the ball. He just stared. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for his verdict. Caleb had secured the funding for the show, so his word was law. And his standards were notoriously high; he’d rejected every girl who had tried out that morning. He stared for so long the basketball rolled off his lap and across the floor, unnoticed. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked abruptly. “That’s none of your business.” “It is if I want to ask you out,” he said with a charming, confident smile. The words hung in the suddenly silent room. I just looked at him like he was an idiot. “You don’t even know my name.” “A name’s not important. The feeling is.” “And yet,” I said, my voice level, “my name is Ava Monroe.” His smile froze, cracking at the edges. “…What did you say your name was?” “Ava Monroe,” I repeated, tapping my temple. “About a month ago, you almost sent me to the ER with that basketball. Don’t you remember?” His face went from confusion to dawning horror. A forced, awkward laugh escaped him. “Oh. Right. It’s you.” “It’s me.” “The sun was in my eyes that day,” he stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I was in a bad mood. I’m sorry.” I ignored him. He was in full damage-control mode now. “Seeing you in that dress… you look incredible. It would be an honor to have you model for us.” “I haven’t agreed to anything.” “Is it the time commitment? The show is on a weekend, it won’t conflict with your classes.” “It’s not about the time,” I said, turning back toward the dressing room. “It’s about the fact that I don’t want to.” I changed back into my own clothes and handed the gown back to the stunned senior. Caleb looked completely thrown. “Wait, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m the real Caleb Vance.” He actually pulled out his student ID to show me, as if that would change anything. “The guy you met that day was my friend. He can be… intense. If he scared you, I apologize on his behalf. I’m the one you were looking for.” He really thought that flashing his name, his status, would make me melt. He was wrong. “I know who you are,” I said calmly. “Tell me, Caleb. How was the food at The Laurel?” His expression soured. “What are you talking about? If you want to go, I can take you.” “I’m not interested. I’m just curious. A ten-thousand-dollar dinner for you and your friends… must have been delicious, right?” “Did Julian tell you that?” “No,” I said, meeting his panicked gaze. “I heard it myself.” I told him then. That I had come back to the court. That I had heard every single word he’d said about me. I repeated them for him, one by one. “Poor.” He winced. “Calculating.” His jaw tightened. “A face only a mother could love.” The blood drained from his face. “I didn’t know you then,” he pleaded. “It was wrong of me to judge you like that. It won’t happen again.” “No,” I said. “It won’t.” I grabbed Chloe’s arm and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. The next day, twenty thousand dollars appeared on my meal card—more than his parents’ original scholarship stipend. I had the university finance office reverse the transaction immediately. He somehow got my number and started flooding me with texts and showing up wherever I was on campus. I ignored him completely. But Caleb didn’t give up. That weekend, I was working my shift at The Alibi, a popular off-campus bar that a lot of students frequented. My manager approached me. “Hey Ava, a fruit platter for the VIP room. Can you take it in?” “That’s not my section,” I said. “I know, but they asked for you by name. Must be some of your friends.” I didn’t think much of it and pushed through the door to the private room. It was packed with about a dozen people, men and women. And right in the center, a smug-looking Caleb Vance. He was looking right at me, a lazy smile playing on his lips. If I didn’t know what a shallow person he was, I might have found him handsome. “Everyone,” he announced, “this is Ava Monroe.” Because of his very public, very one-sided pursuit, my name was now campus gossip. A chorus of knowing “ooohs” went through the room. I said nothing, my eyes scanning the smoky haze until they landed on a figure in the corner. Julian. I don’t know when it happened, but things with Julian had deepened. He wasn’t the terrifying figure from the rumors. Our conversations had evolved from stilted and awkward to easy and open. We could talk about anything. He knew I hated being the center of attention, so our dates were always somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes. We held hands. We kissed. He loved kissing me, long, slow kisses that left me breathless. But that was as far as it went. I was a slow burn, and he was a gentleman. The moment he sensed me pull back, he would stop. He never once made me feel less than because of where I came from. He treated me with a respect I’d never known. It was impossible not to develop feelings for a man like that. And there he was, sitting in the corner. A cigarette was burning between his fingers, but the second I walked in, he stubbed it out. “Ava,” Caleb called out. “I’ve already cleared it with your manager. You’re off the clock. Hang out with us, you’ll still get paid.” “I’d rather work,” I said flatly, setting the platter down and turning to leave. Just then, my phone rang. It was my manager. “Ava, just hang out with them for a bit. It’s part of the job tonight. Caleb’s dad is one of our biggest investors. Don’t piss him off.” Trapped, I slumped into an empty seat. It was a Caleb-curated crowd, all from the same silver-spoon background. They talked about Aston Martins and buying investment properties in London. It was a language I didn’t speak. At one point, someone turned to me. “What do you think of the new Aston Martin, Ava?” “I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “I don’t really follow celebrities.” The table went dead silent. “It’s a car,” a girl finally said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “You’ve never heard of Aston Martin?” The silence that followed was even more mortifying. Julian’s low voice cut through the tension. “It’s normal not to know if you’re not into cars.” The girl wasn’t done. “So what do you drive, Ava?” “She doesn’t,” someone else chimed in. “She’s the scholarship kid Caleb’s parents are sponsoring.” The atmosphere shifted instantly. The looks they gave me were a mixture of pity and suspicion. Now I understood why Caleb’s first assumption was that I was trying to seduce him. In their world, it was the only logical conclusion. I felt like an insect under a microscope. I reached for my glass of water, but a hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Hey, Ava,” the guy said, his eyes wide. “That bracelet you’re wearing… isn’t it the same as Julian’s?” He pushed up my sleeve, revealing the simple, beaded bracelet Julian had given me weeks ago. “Whoa, it is! It’s identical!” “Let me see, Julian!” Someone grabbed Julian’s arm and held it up to the light. His bracelet was the same, just with slightly larger beads. The soft, dark wood gleamed under the track lighting. “They’re a matching set,” someone whispered. The air in the room became thick and heavy. Caleb wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold, fixed on our wrists. “A matching set?” he said slowly, his gaze shifting from me to Julian. “What’s the story, man?” Julian said nothing. His silence was an answer in itself. The pressure was suffocating. “I just bought it at a street market,” I blurted out. “It’s just a coincidence.” “Really?” “Yeah, they’re everywhere.” You could feel the collective sigh of relief in the room. Caleb’s smile returned, and he started pouring drinks, trying to force the mood back to what it was. But Julian’s face was unreadable. He looked down, his expression hidden in the shadows. Oh, God. He was angry. The noise in the VIP room was giving me a headache. I mumbled an excuse about the restroom and slipped out into the concrete stairwell for some air. I’d only been sitting on the steps for a minute when Julian followed me out. Before he could say a word, I surrendered. “I can explain! I didn’t deny it because I don’t like you, I denied it because of what I told you before. I hate being talked about. You’re a big deal on campus, Julian. If people knew we were together, it would be a thousand times worse than it already is.” It was the truth. Ever since Caleb had made a public spectacle of “chasing” me, my life had become a fishbowl. Professors would call my name in lecture halls and a wave of whispers would follow. People took pictures of me in the library. I hated it. Julian was silent for a long time. The stairwell was even darker than the lounge, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel a coldness radiating from him. “All those words,” he said finally, his voice flat. “But what it boils down to is, you don’t have feelings for me.” “No, that’s not it at all!” “It’s been a month, Ava. If you haven’t been moved by now, you never will be.” I didn’t know what to say. “A month,” he said quietly. “That was the deadline I gave myself. You’re free.” “Wait… are you breaking up with me?” “Yeah.” He turned to go. I don’t know what came over me, but I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed his arm, stood on my toes, and pressed my mouth to his.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394227”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I flew halfway across the world for her. A red-eye from Paris, straight into the buzzing chaos of the national dance finals in New York, all to see Seraphina win. I was running on fumes, but the thought of her smile was better than any caffeine. Then I heard the interviewer’s voice boom through the auditorium. “Sera, we’re all dying to know,” the bubbly host said, holding up a phone, “who is ‘Maybach Moneybags’ in your contacts?” A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. On the giant screen above the stage, Seraphina offered a practiced, delicate shrug. “Oh, him?” she said, her voice light as air. “Just… an admirer.” In the shadows of the back row, the brand-new, custom Chanel box slipped from my grasp. It hit the floor with a soft, sickening thud. My car is a Maybach. And I’m the one who provides the “moneybags.” … I bent down, my hands trembling slightly as I retrieved the box, carefully brushing a speck of dust from its glossy surface. Another question echoed from the stage. “The word is, Seraphina, that your boyfriend is absolutely devoted to you. He’s often seen dropping off gifts, even meals, in a Maybach.” Seraphina’s smile was flawless, but her answer was a masterpiece of evasion. “My career has to be my focus right now,” she demurred. “Besides, I don’t think showering a girl with expensive gifts is truly a sign of love. A true connection is about a meeting of the minds, a spiritual bond.” In the roaring auditorium, I heard a distinct, quiet crack. It might have been my heart. Five years together, and I had been reduced to a nickname in her phone, a label. Seraphina was a star, the kind of beautiful that commanded attention the moment she entered a room. Smart, a gifted dancer, with a voice that could charm anyone. Whenever I was stressed out from a business deal gone wrong, she’d perform an impromptu dance for me, right there on the street, drawing a small crowd of mesmerized onlookers snapping pictures with their phones. She’d caused a major stir her senior year at Juilliard. A prestigious dance company had offered her a spot, a dream for most, but she’d turned it down to pursue a master’s fellowship instead. She’d laughed, her face bright with ambition. “A job can wait. This time, right now, is for my art.” I had to admit, she was strategic. In the three years of her master’s program, she’d not only swept every major award in the contemporary dance world but also fielded offers from half a dozen elite companies. Everyone called her an “angel born to dance.” Compared to her, I was painfully ordinary. My grades had been average. I had no artistic talent to speak of. The only thing I had going for me was a relentless work ethic and a decent head for business. In college, while others were studying, I was hustling—hawking water bottles at campus games, roses on Valentine’s Day, ridiculously overpriced apples wrapped in cellophane at Christmas. So, when graduation came, I didn’t follow her to grad school. I went to build my empire. I remember buying my first car that year, a beat-up secondhand Volkswagen. I drove it to pick her up from her dorm, but she stopped me at the main gate of the campus. “You can just drop me here,” she’d said, avoiding my eyes. “You should head back.” I was confused. I watched as other, sleeker cars drove past us onto the manicured grounds. “Is it the car?” I asked, the question tasting like ash in my mouth. “Are you embarrassed?” She’d pouted, her lower lip pushing out in that way I found irresistible. “Don’t be silly. I just don’t want people to think I’m getting special treatment.” There were other times, too. I’d buy coffee or snacks for her roommates, trying to be the good boyfriend, but she’d always intercept me. “I’ll take them up, it’s fine! I’d hate for them to get jealous of me having such a wonderful boyfriend,” she’d say, and the meeting would never happen. Until today. She knew I was in Paris closing a deal. She must have felt safe, posting that Instagram story yesterday: “Finals tomorrow! So nervous. Wonder who will be there to cheer me on?” It was paired with the official competition poster, complete with the time and address. A clear invitation. The interview on stage was causing a sensation. Seraphina glowed under the spotlights, a celestial body I was suddenly realizing I could never truly reach. I was about to slip away unnoticed when I bumped squarely into someone. A man in a sharp suit and designer glasses, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “Well, well,” he said, loudly enough for those around us to hear. “If it isn’t Seraphina’s number one benefactor.” The chatter around me died. As if on cue, a spotlight swiveled and landed directly on me. On stage, Seraphina’s eyes widened. I saw a flicker of panic on the Jumbotron, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by her signature, dazzling smile. “Leo! Oh my god!” she exclaimed into the mic. “Weren’t you just in Paris yesterday? Did you come all this way just to see me compete?” That look of innocent, joyful surprise. It could melt any man’s heart. For a moment, it worked. The anger, the humiliation, it all just evaporated. I found myself smiling back. “Of course,” I said, my voice smoother than I felt. “I came back just for you.” It was a flimsy lie, but after years in the business world, you learn one thing: never show your hand until the final card is played. And if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t just habit. It was because, despite everything, I loved her. I wanted to give her a chance to make this right. Seraphina’s smile was warm, enchanting. “Everyone,” she announced to the auditorium, “I’d like you to meet a very dear friend and supporter of mine, the founder of the Pinnacle Group, Leo Pierce.” Chapter 2 A dear friend. That’s all. The words echoed in my head, and the anger and hurt I’d just suppressed came rushing back. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Every eye in the section seemed to drift down to the Chanel box in my hand, and I could see the dawning comprehension on their faces. So, he’s the one. The man in the suit, Julian, broke the tension. “Nice bag,” he sneered, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Must have set you back a pretty penny. Hope you didn’t have to take out a loan for it.” I just stared at him. A loan for a handbag? That was a new one. Before I could formulate a response, Seraphina cut in, her tone playfully scolding. “Julian, stop it,” she said. “Just because you landed that internship at Goldman Sachs doesn’t mean you’re the only one who understands finance.” They bantered like that, oblivious to the hundreds of people watching them, a private joke playing out on a public stage. Julian pushed his glasses up his nose, a smug, indulgent smile on his face. He looked every bit the polished, Ivy League intellectual. Julian. I’d seen the name before. On her Instagram. A photo of his back, with the caption: Hate how smart he is, always making me look bad. 😉 She’d complained to me about him, too. Some finance guy at school who was annoyingly brilliant and could sing like a professional, always stealing her thunder. The complaint was couched in annoyance, but the subtext was sparkling with something else. The host, sensing the awkwardness, tried to recover. “Mr. Pierce came thousands of miles to witness Seraphina’s triumph!” he announced. “Let’s get him up on stage to present his gift to our star in person! What do you say, folks?” A wave of applause and cheers washed over the hall. Seraphina’s face fell. I saw it clearly on the screen. “That’s not necessary,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. The host froze. Quickly, she offered an out. “We’re all going for a celebratory dinner later.” A dinner. Not a date. A bitter laugh escaped me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly lost. Suddenly, there was a commotion. Julian, with surprising athleticism, vaulted from the front row onto the stage. He snatched the microphone from the host’s hand and turned to Seraphina. “I know you don’t care for extravagant, material things,” he declared, his voice ringing with sincerity. “So, to celebrate your victory, I wanted to give you something from the heart. A song.” A blush crept up Seraphina’s neck. She was half-delighted, half-embarrassed. “Right now?” she whispered. He nodded. “Well… okay. Go on, I’m listening.” Seraphina was right. The guy could sing. He had the kind of voice that wins reality shows, smooth and full of emotion. On stage, they were a perfect picture: the handsome troubadour and the graceful ballerina. He sang, and she began to move, an improvised dance that was fluid and breathtaking. They were perfectly in sync, two artists weaving a spell that captivated the entire audience. The song ended. The applause was deafening. And I, standing under my solitary spotlight, began to laugh. A hollow, ugly sound. On the Jumbotron, my cynical smile was stark and jarring for everyone to see. Chapter 3 Julian looked at me, a wounded expression on his face. “Does Mr. Pierce feel my gift is inferior to a Chanel bag?” he asked, his voice laced with false humility. The unspoken accusation hung in the air: All you have is your money. Seraphina shot me a look from the stage. It was a clear, undisguised warning. Don’t you dare say a word. But I hadn’t said anything. You can be greedy, you can be vain, you can even be unfaithful. But you can’t be blind. You can’t lack basic judgment. I held her gaze for a long moment, then, just as the spotlight on me finally faded, I turned and walked out of the auditorium. Seraphina was right about one thing. People need a spiritual connection, not just a pile of money. And, I had to admit, I did love money. I’d fought tooth and nail for every penny. For years, I’d worked day and night, tackling impossible projects, building the Pinnacle Group from nothing into one of the city’s leading investment firms. I had a sharp eye for opportunity; I wanted to invest in everything, to win every deal. I bought prime real estate, drove luxury cars, wore designer clothes. This dance competition was the first investment I’d ever made without calculating the return. I’d poured a small fortune into sponsoring the event, making quiet arrangements with the organizers to ensure Seraphina was crowned the winner. The plan was for her to then become the official brand ambassador for Pinnacle. We wouldn’t just be a couple; we’d be partners. Our lives, even more intertwined. I thought she was the one pure thing in my life, a refreshing stream in my world of crass commerce. In high school, my grandparents passed away. My parents had been out of the picture for years. I was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. But orphans have to eat, too. So I started working, juggling classes and odd jobs. In that gray, washed-out world, Seraphina was the only splash of color. She’d secretly slip her breakfast into my desk, then deny it with a proud toss of her head if I caught her. She’d round up her friends to buy water from me at the track meets, flowers on Valentine’s, apples at Christmas. When kids whispered that I was the charity case whose parents had abandoned him, she’d just catch my eye from across the cafeteria, sipping her soda, and give me a small, conspiratorial smile. It was a silent, powerful comfort. No one had ever protected me, ever truly loved me. She was the first person to offer me any kind of warmth. That’s why I worked so hard, fought so fiercely. All I wanted was to give her the world, to protect her, to love her. I hadn’t even reached the parking garage when I heard a peal of giggles. “Wow, so this is a Maybach,” a girl’s voice said. “It’s so insane. I’ve never even been in one.” Another voice, dripping with disdain, replied, “Please. When Sera’s sugar daddy gets here, just ask him for a joyride.” I had a sinking feeling they were talking about me. Sure enough, I rounded the corner to see a group of long-legged dancers, two of whom I recognized as Seraphina’s roommates, huddled around my car. They saw me approach and didn’t even flinch. Instead, one of them raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Hey, you,” she said. “Take us for a spin, get us each a little something from Dior, and we’ll put in a good word for you with Sera. What do you say?” Her friend chimed in. “And just some friendly advice? That singer on stage? He’s a finance prodigy. Your stock is dropping, fast.” If my life were a play, I would have paid to watch it from the audience, just to understand how I had become so pathetic that my girlfriend’s roommates thought they could use her as a bargaining chip to control me. I remembered all the times Sera told me her roommates were “difficult,” and how I’d constantly buy them makeup and gift cards, just so they’d be nice to her. Right then, I wished they were a pack of street thugs instead of a gaggle of aspiring ballerinas. At least then I could have thrown a punch. But I couldn’t. I had to choose my words carefully, lest they twist them into some social media horror story. As they spoke, one of the girls brazenly tried the passenger door handle. To my surprise, it clicked open. She was about to slide in when a hand shot out and blocked her way. “Hold on,” a crisp, unfamiliar voice said. “I believe this vehicle is under a rental agreement. With me.” I looked up, stunned, into a clear, intelligent face I’d never seen before. She was about Seraphina’s age, dressed in a large, stylish overcoat that hid her figure, but on her feet were a pair of limited-edition designer heels. The dancers stared, confused, before one of them scoffed. “Whatever. Broke loser, pretending to be rich,” she muttered, and the group sauntered away. The strange girl opened the passenger door, slid in, and buckled her seatbelt with an air of familiarity. “Get in,” she said. The Maybach’s engine purred to life, the sound echoing through the concrete garage. A minute later, we were cruising down the avenue. “Sorry about that,” she said politely. “You looked like you were in a tight spot, so I improvised. Don’t worry, this isn’t some elaborate scam. You can just drop me at the nearest subway station.” I managed a small smile. The first real one of the night. A girl wearing thousand-dollar shoes was probably the one doing the scamming, not the other way around. Following her directions, I pulled over to the curb. “How are you getting home?” I asked. She grinned. “On the multi-billion-dollar MTA transit system. The 1 train awaits.” I laughed. It felt good. “Thank you,” I said again, genuinely. She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.” With that, she hopped out and disappeared down the subway entrance. It wasn’t until I was pulling back into traffic that her words from the garage fully registered. The way she’d said my name. No one in the business world called me Leo Pierce with that wry, almost playful tone. It was as if she knew me from another lifetime. A lifetime before the Maybach and the Pinnacle Group.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394226”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Five years of marriage, undone by a fleck of paint. On the eve of our fifth anniversary, I took the portrait Isabella had painted of me to a conservator’s studio for routine maintenance. The specialist, a woman with eyes that missed nothing, was effusive in her praise. “She’s captured you perfectly,” she said, her voice echoing in the sterile white room. “Your wife has a tremendous gift.” Then, her practiced eye caught it. A tiny, almost imperceptible chip of crimson pigment flaking away at the canvas’s edge. She leaned closer, her breath misting the varnish. “Wait,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “There’s a ghost under this canvas. Another painting.” With my permission, she subjected the piece to a specialized imaging process. What emerged from beneath my own staid, formal portrait was a revelation—an incandescent depiction of a reclining man, beautiful and raw. The studio fell silent. Even to my untrained eye, the power of the hidden piece was undeniable. It wasn’t just a painting; it was an act of worship. Every brushstroke hummed with a fierce, frantic passion, the kind of creative ecstasy an artist finds only once or twice in a lifetime. A shame, then, that this naked, saint-like figure was not me. I snapped a photo and sent it to Isabella. Who is he?! 1 “Come home, Alex. I’ll explain everything.” Her text was a cold stone in my gut. I drove back in a daze, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks. In our bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed we shared, my eyes fixed on the stark white rectangle on the wall where the painting had hung. Five years. For five years, the naked form of another man had watched over us in our most intimate space. And Isabella had put him there. The front door opened and closed, followed by the hurried click of her heels on the hardwood floor. She appeared in the doorway, her usual composure slightly frayed. “Alex,” she began, her voice tight. “I should have told you sooner.” She walked toward me, her hands clasped. “It’s a common practice for art students, recycling canvases to save money. That was just a practice piece from my academy days. It was thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry.” Did all art students paint their fiancés over their naked lovers? The question burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it. Seeing the storm still in my eyes, she knelt before me, her movements fluid and practiced. She cupped my face in her hands, her touch cool, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm I suddenly found toxic. “What we have now… it’s for the best.” Her gaze was so sincere, so convincing. I almost believed her. I didn’t want to tear our life apart over a ghost on a canvas, so I said nothing. But the next day, the unease was a physical sickness. Our marriage had been a merger, a union of the Sterling and Grant families. I knew the broad strokes of her past: a brilliant painter who’d traded her brushes for boardrooms to take over Sterling Corp. After our wedding, she had been a devoted, loving wife. I had never felt the need to dig deeper. Until now. That painting wasn’t a student’s exercise; it was a confession. I forwarded the photo to a friend from my college days, now a curator who’d attended the same art academy. The reply came back almost instantly. “Yeah, I remember him. A life model named Julian Vance.” A breath I didn’t realize I was holding escaped me. Just a model. But then, a second text arrived. “Look, since you’re asking… he was also her boyfriend back then.” The world went white. Isabella. My wife. Had hung a naked portrait of her ex-boyfriend in our bedroom for five years. I couldn’t hear the sound of my own ragged breathing. I mechanically ended the call, my fingers trembling as I texted her. 【Come home. We need to talk.】 When I arrived, the housekeeper handed me a courier box. “It was addressed with the madam’s phone number, so I signed for it,” she explained. “But the name on the label is strange. It says, ‘Belle.’” Belle. Her artist name from the academy. A name I’d never heard her use. A secret self. They were still in contact. I held my breath and opened Pandora’s box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a whisper of lace and silk—lingerie so outrageously provocative it felt like a scream in my hands. I pictured Isabella, my elegant, poised wife… and a surge of rage so profound it left me dizzy. 2 My fingers flew across my phone’s keyboard, searching for a private investigator. I needed to know everything. “You want me to tail Mrs. Sterling-Grant?” The P.I. on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “Son, the Stirlings are untouchable.” He paused. “But the Grants aren’t small fry either. I’ll give you an address, on the house. Consider it a professional courtesy.” He knew. Even this stranger knew. My first instinct was to throw the lingerie in her face. But I knew her. She would have a thousand perfectly plausible, cuttingly rational explanations. I had to see for myself. I had just disposed of the box when she walked in, her face a mask of concern. “Alex, what is it? You look pale.” I turned my back, busying myself at the wet bar so she couldn’t see the fury in my eyes. “It’s handled.” She visibly relaxed. “The housekeeper mentioned a strange package?” My grip on the crystal tumbler tightened. “Addressed to a ‘Belle.’ Never heard of her. Must have been a mistake. I threw it out.” A flicker of panic crossed her face before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile. “That’s fine.” That night, she slid into bed and wrapped her arms around me from behind, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Her breathing grew shallow, urgent. But my eyes were fixed on that blank space on the wall, my mind flashing with images: the painted saint, the life model, the black lace. “I’m tired,” I said, my voice flat. She froze. The warmth of her body receded as she pulled her hand away and rolled onto her side, her back a rigid wall between us. After a long silence, she spoke to the darkness. “I have a business trip tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a week.” “Okay.” The next day, I drove to the address. It was a cobblestone alley in a gentrifying part of the city. I asked an elderly woman tending to her window box for directions. She scowled. “Oh, them,” she said, her voice thick with disapproval. “That artist pair. Have that little gallery, but they never sell a thing. Always all over each other, kissing and cuddling right on the street before they disappear into the back. Shameless.” My feet felt like lead as I walked deeper into the alley. And then I saw her. Isabella. Sitting under a willow tree, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear. Her hair was down, unbound from its usual perfect chignon. She wore a loose, paint-splattered men’s shirt, the top two buttons undone. This wasn’t Isabella, the CEO. This was Belle, the artist. As I watched, frozen, a man emerged from the shop. 3 I recognized him instantly. Julian Vance. He wore a similar white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the muscles of his chest visible through the thin cotton. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. I could see the blush spread across her cheeks even from a distance. She laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years, and threw herself into his arms. She was electric, alive, a stray dog finding its master. As she buried her face in his neck, the collar of his shirt slipped, revealing a tell-tale sliver of black lace. He swept her up into his arms and carried her inside. The world tilted on its axis. I don’t know how long I stood there, rooted to the spot. When my limbs finally obeyed me again, I found myself inside the gallery. The walls were a shrine to him. Julian, everywhere. She had painted an entire gallery for him. In every portrait, he was adored, immortalized. Compared to this, my own portrait felt like a soulless corporate headshot. A pathetic joke. I moved toward the back. It was a live-work space. The living area was littered with their life—Polaroids taped to the walls, each with a handwritten caption. “He called after his car accident, a broken leg. But the night-blooming cereus was about to open. A once-a-year miracle. She missed his call.” “Our anniversary. She said she hates performing love. She ran away to me.” Before the tears could fall, I heard it. From the bedroom. The rhythmic, guttural sounds of passion. So this was her arrangement. The poised CEO by day, the debauched artist by night. I leaned against the wall, my body weak, my heart a trapped bird beating against my ribs. Pain, then rage, then a bitter, corrosive sense of injustice. I wanted to storm in there, to rip him away from her, to scream why? But what then? In a pause between their cries, I heard their voices. “Alex found the portrait,” Julian said. “Oh? He must hate me now,” she replied, her voice breathy. “I made something up. He’ll probably buy it. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll turn a blind eye. That’s our relationship. It’s a business deal. Honestly, sending him that painting was a childish act of spite… but when he found out, I can’t deny there was a little thrill of revenge.” She was wrong. I did love her. I did care. And you can’t turn a blind eye when a knife is being twisted in your heart. In that moment, whatever love I had for her died in that hallway. Julian sighed. “If it weren’t for me, maybe you could have accepted him. You wouldn’t be in so much pain.” “He’s a good man, Julian,” she murmured. “But I need… a release valve.” A good man. I laughed silently, bitterly. You cowardly, greedy woman, Isabella. You didn’t have the courage to defy your mother, so you took your anger out on me. I left and drove straight to the private estate where her mother was convalescing. “Your daughter is having an affair,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “You forced her into this.” She didn’t pause in her pruning of a prize-winning rose bush. She didn’t seem surprised. “It’s not an affair, Alex. It’s an arrangement,” she said coolly. “It was her condition for agreeing to the merger. That man is tucked away in his little shop. He doesn’t affect you. When Isabella is under pressure, she needs an… outlet. He absorbs some of that for you.” She finally turned, her eyes like chips of ice. “The company is at a critical juncture. Do not distract her. Do not bother her with this. Our families rise and fall together. And as the adopted son of the Grant family, your primary duty is gratitude. Let this go. I won’t tell her you came to see me.” An adopted son. A fool to be played with. I clenched my fists, then forced a calm I didn’t feel. “I understand, Mrs. Sterling.” 4 The moment I left, I called my sister, Cate. “Can you come home?” “What, did the old man finally decide he wants me to inherit his crumbling empire?” she shot back. “Tell him I’m doing better on my own.” A pause. “Wait. Your voice… have you been crying?” Cate had been the family rebel, escaping to Europe as a teenager. She hadn’t even come home for my wedding. My father, in a fit of rage, had disowned her. To the world, Catherine Grant was a ghost. “I’m being played, Cate.” “I’m on the next flight,” she said, her voice turning to steel. “Tell me what you need.” A week later, Isabella returned, flushed and almost giddy. “I have someone for you to meet,” she announced. “Now, promise me you won’t get angry.” Before I could respond, Julian Vance strolled into our living room, a smug, knowing smile playing on his lips. The audacity. Before I could explode, Isabella guided me to the sofa and knelt before me. “I know what you must think because of the painting. But this is purely business. I brought him here to help us secure funding from Cygnus Ventures. His sister knows their mysterious majority shareholder.” It was all my plan, of course. The mysterious shareholder was Cate. I just hadn’t anticipated this. “You’ve been in contact with him?” I asked, playing my part. Her excuse was ready. “A chance encounter on my trip. Cygnus is planning a major art exhibition, and they’re looking to invest in a promising firm. He told me all about it.” Julian stepped forward, oozing false sincerity. “Alex, for an artist, nudity is just form and shadow. When I posed for her, it was no different than a plaster cast. Please don’t let that old painting jeopardize Isabella’s work.” A plaster cast. I thought of the sounds from the back room of his shop. Isabella squeezed my hand, her face a mask of corporate focus. “There’s one more thing. I need him to stay here. In the guest room. This project is too sensitive. I can’t risk any leaks.” Her gaze was as sincere as ever. You must be exhausted, Isabella, after all these years of acting. “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “The business comes first.” They exchanged a look of triumphant relief. I swallowed the bitterness. In the days that followed, I became a ghost in my own home. A shared glance over the dinner table, a brush of fingers in the hallway… I saw it all. You must be finding this difficult, holding back, Isabella. Don’t worry. I’m about to give you everything you want. 5 I told her I had to stay overnight in the city for a client dinner. From my car, I pulled up the feed from the camera I’d installed in our bedroom. Isabella was lying in bed alone. After a few minutes, the door opened. It was Julian. He wrapped his arms around her, and she responded passionately. Then, as if remembering something, she went rigid and gently pushed him away. “Not tonight,” she whispered. “It’s my anniversary with Alex.” Julian pulled her back. “And what about him?” Isabella hesitated, her voice suddenly small and lost. “I… I don’t know.” A month later, the night of the exhibition arrived. Cygnus Ventures’ mysterious shareholder was set to announce which firm would receive their massive capital injection. In the preceding weeks, Isabella had gone on a ruthless acquisition spree. The media, fed a steady stream of leaks, was certain that with Julian’s connection, Sterling Corp was a lock. Even her mother had come out of retirement for the event. “This is how it should be,” she’d told me earlier. “Composed. Understanding the bigger picture.” All I saw was a woman gambling her family’s legacy to give her lover legitimacy. The gallery was buzzing. Isabella and Julian were the center of attention, accepting premature congratulations. No one seemed to remember the quiet husband nursing a scotch in the corner. “With Mr. Vance at your side, you’re unstoppable, Isabella!” “I remember at the academy, she only had eyes for him. A love story for the ages!” Julian just smiled and nodded, basking in the unearned glory. Feigning drunkenness, I stumbled toward them, spilling my drink all over his pristine shirt. Isabella’s face hardened. She grabbed my wrist. “Alex, stop it. This is just business.” You’re the one who thought this farce was real. I snatched the champagne flute from her other hand and was about to down it when strong arms encircled me, taking the glass away. I finally let myself break. The tears streamed down my face. “What took you so long?” I choked out.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394225”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 On the day of what was meant to be my eighteenth birthday party—but was really Chloe’s—my father came home with a dress box from a Fifth Avenue boutique. Inside was a cascade of silk and seed pearls. Chloe, my adopted sister, rushed to him, linking her arm through his with the easy ownership she’d cultivated over a decade. “Daddy, you shouldn’t have,” she purred. “But I’m so glad you did.” My brother, Ethan, followed her, a warm smile gracing his lips. “Good choice, Dad. It’ll look stunning on her.” I instinctively took a step back, my fingers smoothing over the faded fabric of my worn-out blouse. A thing of such beauty was never meant for me. In this house, I was a ghost, a reminder of a tragedy they had all decided was my fault. But this time, my father’s eyes found mine. He gestured for me to come forward and placed the heavy, luxurious box into my hands. “It’s for Elara.” The air in the grand foyer crackled with a sudden, sharp tension. Chloe’s smile froze, cracking at the edges. Ethan’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward, ready to champion her cause. “Dad, it’s Chloe’s birthday too!” he protested, snatching the box from my grasp. He glared at me, his voice laced with the familiar contempt I’d grown up with. “Someone like her has no right to wear something this beautiful.” The fragile flicker of hope that had ignited in my chest was instantly extinguished. But my father, for the first time in ten years, ignored them. He took the box back from Ethan and pressed it firmly into my hands again, his gaze unreadable. “We have guests arriving soon. Go get ready. I want you to look presentable.” Ethan let out a sound of disgust, a short, sharp tsk. He turned his back on me, wrapping a comforting arm around Chloe’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, loud enough for me to hear. “He just bought you that sapphire necklace, remember? Put it on. Let everyone see who the real Sterling family daughter is.” He shot me one last, cold look before leading Chloe away. Ethan was my brother. We’d shared a womb, a childhood, a mother. He knew better than anyone who the real daughter was. But the day the ocean took our mother, it took my family, too. In their eyes, I was no longer a daughter or a sister. I was the sin they couldn’t wash away. I took a deep breath and, against my better judgment, I put on the dress. When I emerged, the house was already filled with people. They were Chloe’s friends, mostly—a flock of girls who knew which way the social winds blew. Whenever they visited, Chloe would introduce me with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, that’s just Elara. She helps around the house.” My father and brother had given her the confidence to transform from the timid orphan she once was into the reigning princess of our home. One of the girls, a blonde named Tiffany, spotted me and smirked. “Chloe, you’re a saint. Dressing the help better than some of the guests.” “Aren’t you afraid she’ll outshine you?” another chimed in. Chloe’s eyes narrowed as she looked me over. Before she could speak, Ethan stepped in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Putting a designer dress on a nobody doesn’t change who she is. It takes more than that to have class.” The group laughed. Tiffany, sensing an opportunity for sport, sauntered over and nudged my foot with the pointed toe of her designer heel. “Hey, you. Get me a glass of champagne.” For ten years, since I lost my mother, I had lost the will to fight. I’d absorbed their cruelty, their neglect, their endless slights, believing it was my penance. But the weight of the silk, the shimmer of the pearls… it had woken something in me. A foolish, dangerous spark of defiance. I shook my head. “I’m not the maid. You can get it yourself.” A flash of anger crossed her face. She spun around to Chloe. “Can you believe the nerve? If she worked for my family, she’d be fired on the spot!” Before Chloe could reply, my father called her over. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment, and when she returned, her expression had shifted into one of magnanimous pity. “I’ve always thought of Elara as a sister,” she announced to her friends. “Please, don’t tease her.” A short while later, my father stood on the makeshift stage in the ballroom, a microphone in his hand. He began his speech with a tribute to my mother, his voice thick with practiced grief. Then, he turned his attention to Chloe. “We have cherished Chloe, my son and I, raised her as our own precious girl,” he said, his voice resonating through the speakers. “Today she turns eighteen. I wish her a life filled with joy and peace.” An ache bloomed in my chest. Since Mom was gone, no one had wished me joy. My life had become an endless act of atonement. Then, my father’s gaze fell on me. His eyes held a strange mixture of hesitation and something else… something I couldn’t decipher. My heart hammered against my ribs. I clutched the silk of the dress, my knuckles white. He raised his hand, pointing directly at me. The spotlight operator, following his gesture, swung a bright, searing beam onto me, blinding me for a second. And then he spoke, his voice cold and clear, for everyone to hear. “The maid. Who gave you permission to steal my daughter’s dress?” The world stopped. A wave of whispers washed over the room. Tiffany let out a snort of laughter, clapping Chloe on the shoulder. “I knew it! No wonder she had such an attitude. A common thief.” A chill, colder than any ocean wave, seeped into my bones. This wasn’t a peace offering. It was a public execution. Ethan appeared at my side, his breath a cold whisper in my ear. “This is for Mom,” he hissed. “You don’t deserve to live, let alone be loved.” 2 My mind snapped back a decade. The sun, the sand, the salt-laced air. Our first and only family trip to the coast. My father, Richard, had Ethan perched on his shoulders. My mother, Eleanor, held my hand, her grip warm and firm. “Stay out of the water, my love,” she’d warned gently. “The tide is strong today.” I’d nodded obediently, content to build a sandcastle at the edge of the surf. But as a wave rushed in, I felt it—a sharp, deliberate shove from behind. I tumbled into the churning water, swallowing a mouthful of saltwater, crying out in panic. My mother heard me. She ran into the waves without a second’s thought, her only goal to reach me. She pushed my small, sputtering body towards the shore, into Ethan’s waiting arms. Then the big one came. A wall of green and white that rose up and crashed down, swallowing her whole. My father searched for her like a madman, screaming her name until his voice was raw, until the sun had sunk below the horizon and the sky was bruised with twilight. The lifeguards who finally arrived told him what he already knew. Just beyond the breakers was a treacherous rocky cliff face. She was gone. He cried all night. The next day, he was a different man. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a permanent winter. He forbade me from calling him “Dad.” Ethan, traumatized, fell into a fever that lasted three days. He called for Mom in his delirium, and my father sat by his bed, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. When he looked at me, standing in the doorway chewing on my fingernails, his grief curdled into rage. “Your mother told you to stay out of the water! Why didn’t you listen?” he roared. “You killed the only person I ever loved. You are not my daughter anymore!” I sobbed, clinging to his legs, trying to explain that I was pushed. But when he demanded to know who, the words died in my throat. I hadn’t seen them. I didn’t know. That was the day my father gave up on me completely. He never held me again. When Ethan recovered, the first thing he did was convince our father to take him to an orphanage. He personally selected a girl who shared our birthday. He brought Chloe home. They poured all their broken, misdirected love into her. And I, who had once been the center of their world, became the family servant. I woke before dawn to make breakfast, meticulously preparing the seafood risotto Chloe favored. My father drove her to her private academy in his Mercedes. I walked the three miles to the public school, rain or shine. Whenever tears threatened to fall, I would pull out the worn photograph of my mother I kept hidden in my pocket. Her last words to me, screamed over the roar of the ocean, were, “Live, Elara. Just live.” For her, I had endured. I had made it to eighteen. I was almost free. But my father’s words now were a blade twisting in my heart. Mom, I don’t think I can keep my promise much longer. Ethan grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and yanked me to the floor. “Stop playing dead. That dress costs a fortune. How do you plan on paying for it?” Chloe drifted over, her expression a perfect mask of sorrow. “Elara, I thought of you as family. How could you disappoint me like this?” It took a moment for my voice to work. “It’s not your dress, Chloe,” I whispered, my gaze fixed on the man on the stage. “He… my father… he gave it to me.” A murmur rippled through the guests at my use of the word “father.” “I didn’t know Richard Sterling had another daughter.” “Look at her… she has Eleanor’s eyes. A spitting image of his late wife.” The whispers grew louder. My father descended the stairs, his face a thundercloud. He stalked towards me, grabbed my chin, and forced me to look at him. “I told you never to call me that,” he snarled. “You are not worthy.” The crowd gasped. He straightened up, addressing the room. “She was my daughter,” he announced, his voice booming with authority. “But the day her carelessness killed my wife, I swore I would never acknowledge her again.” Chloe’s friends stared at me with newfound disgust. “You’re the reason Mrs. Sterling is dead?” one of them whispered. “You’re a monster.” Looking at the cold stranger who was once my father, the tears I had held back for a decade finally broke free. “She wasn’t killed by me! I was pushed—!” The sharp crack of his hand across my face silenced me. The world tilted, my cheek screaming in pain. “You do not speak her name!” he bellowed, his carefully constructed facade of a grieving, gentle widower shattered. It was the first time he had ever hit me in front of anyone. He turned away from my crumpled form on the floor, his voice regaining its composure. “From now on, she is simply the help. Anyone here… feel free to make use of her.” 3 He returned to the stage and announced, “Let the party begin.” Chloe, surrounded by her court, glided to the head table, pausing to look down at me. “Well, you heard him, Elara,” she said sweetly. “My friends are thirsty.” The eyes on me were no longer just curious; they were predatory. Hands beckoned, voices called out orders for wine, for appetizers. Tiffany swaggered over, a triumphant smirk on her face. She leaned down, tapping my stinging cheek. “Now,” she said, “about that champagne?” Numbly, I retrieved a glass and handed it to her. She took it, and with a deliberate flick of her wrist, she emptied its contents all over her own dress. Chloe and her friends rushed over at Tiffany’s shriek. “I just asked her for a drink!” Tiffany wailed, clutching at her stained gown. “She’s so arrogant, she just threw it at me! This is haute couture! Can she even afford to have it cleaned?” Chloe looked at me, her eyes brimming with false disappointment. “Elara, why must you always make things so difficult for everyone?” A blond boy I recognized as Julian Vance, whose family was notoriously wealthy and equally notorious for their scandals, stepped forward. “Chloe, darling, don’t let this trash ruin your night. I’ll handle it.” His eyes roamed over me like I was something on a menu. He picked up a full glass of red wine from a passing tray and poured it slowly over my head, drenching the bodice of the pearl dress. The silk clung to me, outlining everything beneath. The room erupted in laughter. I crossed my arms over my chest, humiliated, desperate to escape. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’ll pay for the dress. I’ll work to pay for it.” “Pay with what?” Julian sneered, his gaze lingering. He licked his lips. “You know, you’re not bad looking under all that misery. Why don’t you come with me? My family has a little money. You behave, and I’ll treat you better than they ever did here.” A cold sweat broke out on my back. I shook my head frantically. “No, I have money, I can pay…” He ignored me, scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Chloe,” he called out, “is there an empty room I can borrow?” I tried to scream, but Chloe was already there, stuffing a silk napkin into my mouth. She leaned close, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “The Vances are powerful people in this city. Make him happy, Elara. He can give you things my father and brother never would.” She patted my cheek, a gesture that was anything but kind, and pointed towards a guest room down the hall. “Have fun.” I struggled, but Julian’s grip was like iron. My gaze fell upon my brother, Ethan, standing just a few feet away, his expression conflicted. Chloe noticed him, too. She simply walked over, said something with a pretty pout, and he turned his back on me. Decisively. Completely. Tears of utter despair streamed down my face. How could they be so cruel? A voice cut through the haze of my panic. “What’s going on here?” It was my father. He looked at Chloe, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “This is your party, for God’s sake. If they want to do this, I’ll get them a hotel room.” He then looked at me, slung over Julian’s shoulder, with chilling indifference. He turned back to Chloe. “I left your real gift in your room. Go on up.” Then, he faced Julian, a placid, businesslike smile on his face. “To be chosen by you, Julian, is the girl’s good fortune.” Julian looked surprised, then chuckled, his breath hot against my ear. “You see that? Your own father is giving you to me. Who am I to refuse? I never thought a Sterling girl would be so easy to get.” My father grunted. “This is the price she pays.” His voice was devoid of all emotion. “I’ve raised her for eighteen years. It’s time she started repaying the debt.” I closed my eyes, my body trembling uncontrollably. Mom, forgive me. I can’t live like you asked me to. As I prepared to bite down on my own tongue, to end it all, a shimmering image appeared in the darkness of my mind. It was my mother, her face a mask of horror, reaching for me. “Elara!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394224”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The story my parents told themselves was that I was the curse that took my sister. The day I was born was the day she died in a car crash. So they found a replacement, a girl Lily’s age named Pearl, and poured all their love into her. I became the weed in their perfect garden. “Weeds are born to be stepped on,” Pearl once told me, a smirk playing on her lips. She lived by that philosophy. She framed me for theft. She locked me out of the house in the freezing cold. Each of her lies was rewarded with my parents’ anger, their shouts, their fists. But when I finally withered, just as they’d always wanted, they began to panic. 1 I clutched Pearl’s backpack, my small frame shivering at the school gate long after the last bell. The sky had bruised from gray to purple to black. Old Mr. Henderson, the security guard, stepped out for a smoke, his brow furrowed when he saw me. “Still here, little one? It’s not safe out here for a girl your age. Why aren’t you home?” He offered the warmth of his security booth, but I just shook my head, my grip tightening on the worn straps of the bag. “My sister, Pearl, told me to wait right here. She’ll be out any minute.” “You said that four hours ago, kiddo,” he said, his voice gentle with pity. “I think she might have forgotten about you.” He saw he couldn’t move me and retreated with a sad shake of his head. Another hour crawled by. My fingers had gone from aching to numb when our housekeeper, Maria, came running, her breath misting in the frigid air. “Willow! My God, I’ve been searching for you all afternoon!” She chafed my hands between hers, her eyes welling up. “You’re like ice! Why didn’t you just go home?” “I couldn’t,” I whispered, hugging the backpack to my chest. “Pearl isn’t out yet. I couldn’t leave her.” Maria let out a long, pained sigh and guided me toward the car. “Honey… Pearl’s been home for hours.” She studied my face in the dim light of the car, her expression a mix of anger and sorrow. Finally, she just stroked my hair. “Listen to me, Willow. When we get inside, you don’t say a word. Let me do the talking. Do you understand?” I nodded, my mind clinging to a simple explanation. She just forgot. It was an accident. But before we even opened the front door, I could hear Pearl’s dramatic sobs. “I just asked her to hold my bag for a second, and when I turned around, she was gone!” she wailed. “My art project was in there! We only get one, and if it’s lost, my teacher will kill me!” My father’s voice was a low growl. “She’s getting more and more out of control.” I couldn’t wait. Forgetting Maria’s warning, I burst through the door. “Pearl, I have it! Your bag is right here!” I held it up like a trophy. “I was a good girl. I waited right by the gate, but you never came.” I looked at her, expecting relief, maybe even a thank you. Instead, she shook her head, her eyes wide and innocent as she looked at our parents. “I didn’t tell her to wait for me.” My parents’ gazes swiveled between us. Before they could speak, Pearl’s face crumpled into tears. “Willow… why are you lying?” “I’m not!” I said, my voice trembling. I thrust my hands out for them to see. “Look, my hands are all frozen.” The skin was raw and chapped, swollen red from the biting wind. Maria stepped forward, her voice firm. “She was at the school gate for nearly five hours. The guard can confirm it. In this weather… she’s going to get sick.” My father’s face was a cold mask. My mother pulled Pearl closer, her voice stern. “Pearl, is what Willow is saying true?” Pearl didn’t answer. She just let tears tremble on her lashes before finally turning to our housekeeper. “Maria… I know you don’t like me. Because I’m not their real daughter.” That was all it took. My mother swept Pearl into a protective embrace, shooting a venomous glare at Maria. “I had no idea you were playing favorites behind our backs. Helping her concoct these despicable lies!” Maria began to apologize, to explain, but my mother wasn’t listening. She dragged Maria into the other room, and their hushed, angry voices buzzed through the wall. When Maria left for the night, she paused at the door, her eyes filled with tears. She cupped my cheek, her hand warm against my frozen skin. “You take care of yourself, little one,” she whispered. “Don’t let her walk all over you.” “See you tomorrow, Maria,” I said, nodding dutifully. Her hand faltered for a second before she turned and walked away without looking back. I turned around to see my mother standing over me, her face a thundercloud. She was holding Pearl’s backpack, from which she’d pulled a mangled mess of construction paper and glitter. “So, you’re not just a liar, you’re a jealous little vandal, too? You destroyed your sister’s project on purpose?” I stared, shaking my head numbly. But she had already retrieved the thin, wooden ruler from a kitchen drawer. “When you do something wrong,” she said, her voice flat and cold, “there are consequences.” She struck my palm ten times. My hands were so frozen, the sting felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. From behind our mother, Pearl peeked out, her eyes shining. “It’s okay, Weed,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “I forgive you this time. Just don’t lie anymore, okay?” 2 She produced a strawberry lollipop from behind her back and held it out to me. It had been so long since I’d had candy. Forgetting the ache in my hands, I snatched it and popped it in my mouth. It tasted strange, tangy and a little off, but my parents were watching. I dutifully finished the whole thing. In the middle of the night, I woke up choking. I couldn’t breathe. My skin was on fire, covered in tiny, raised bumps. I stumbled into the hallway and saw it in the kitchen trash: the fibrous pit of a mango. Nana always said I was allergic. Deathly allergic, she’d said. The lollipop. It must have been coated in mango juice. I scrambled for the medicine cabinet, but it was empty. I looked at my parents’ closed bedroom door and backed away. Mom’s rule was absolute: never, ever wake them. But my throat was closing. Panic set in. I ran to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap, forcing cold water down my throat, trying to flush the poison out. After what felt like an eternity, the swelling eased just enough for me to gasp for air. Then a new agony set in. A wave of icy cramps seized my stomach. I ran for the bathroom, but the door was locked. I turned. Pearl was standing behind me in the dark, a small, knowing smile on her face. “The toilet’s broken,” she said simply. “You’ll have to hold it.” I wanted to ask about the mango, but the pain was too sharp. “My stomach… it hurts so bad,” I whimpered. “Please, can I just go in?” “Are you going to be a bad girl, Weed? Are you going to disobey me?” She pointed to the front door. “There’s a public restroom in the park. Go there.” When I didn’t move, she sighed theatrically, unlocked the front door, and shoved me out into the black, starless night. My hands trembled as I found my way to the park, finished my business in the cold, dark restroom, and hurried back. I knocked on the door. Then knocked again, louder. No one came. I called for them, my voice a tiny thread of sound snatched away by the wind. “Mom? Dad?” They must have been sleeping too soundly. A light was on in Pearl’s room, but the window was too high for me to reach. After a long time, I gave up. I curled into a tight ball on the doormat, hugging my knees to my chest. When I lived with Nana, she told me stories every night until I fell asleep. But then she’d collapsed, and they’d taken her to the hospital, and she hadn’t come to visit me in a very, very long time. Exhaustion finally pulled me under. In my dreams, I saw her. Nana. Her face was as kind as I remembered. She stroked my hair and said, Willow, you have to take care of yourself. My parents never said it to my face, but I’d heard the neighbors talking. They said my parents blamed me for Lily’s death. That they would rather adopt a stranger who looked like her than raise me themselves. I didn’t understand what death meant, not really. All I knew was that with Nana, I was safe. For as long as I could remember, it had been just the two of us. My parents visited once, to tell me I’d be moving to the city for elementary school. I refused, clinging to Nana’s legs. I saw the look on their faces as they left. Mom had called me an ungrateful little brat. Nana told me she didn’t mean it. When you get bigger, and you’re a good girl, they’ll love you again, she’d promised. But one morning, I woke up and found her lying in the yard, a dark pool of blood spreading from her head. I ran for help, and they took her away in an ambulance. I never saw her again. My parents took me to this strange house and introduced me to Pearl. They told me to be nice to her, that she was the only princess in this house, and everyone had to do what she said. So when Pearl joked that my name should be Weed, my parents just laughed and agreed. I remembered Nana telling me that weeds were tough. She wanted me to be strong like them, to grow no matter what. If I could just make it through this one night, I thought, maybe I’d be a little tougher, too. 3 I woke to my mother shaking me. She’d found me curled on the doormat when she went to take out the trash. “When did you sneak out?” was all she asked, before hurrying me inside to get ready for school. But I felt awful. The bumps on my face were itching, my head was spinning, and I couldn’t stop shivering. “Mom,” I whispered, “I feel really sick. Can we go to the doctor?” Her brows knitted together in annoyance. She didn’t even look at me. “You’ve been in school for a week and you’re already trying to fake an illness? I knew bringing you here was a mistake.” Remembering Nana’s promise, I choked down my milk and followed Pearl to the car. The motion of the car made everything worse. My breath felt hot, and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open. When the driver took a sharp turn, the milk I’d forced down came rushing back up. I vomited all over the floor of the car. “Ew, Willow, you’re so gross!” Pearl shrieked. The driver, at least, was kind. “Little miss, we don’t have a change of clothes. Should we go back home?” The image of my mother’s disappointed face flashed in my mind. I shook my head. At school, Pearl made sure everyone knew what had happened. Kids pinched their noses when I walked by. No one would come near me. I kept my head down, my face burning. During class, my desk-mate huddled as far away from me as he could get. My teacher, Mrs. Davis, finally noticed. “Willow, honey, your face is so red!” Pearl piped up from across the room. “Willow’s face is a strawberry, and the red dots are the seeds!” The class erupted in laughter. I tried to smile along, but my stomach gurgled, and I knew I was going to be sick again. Mrs. Davis told the class to read quietly and then scooped me into her arms. She smelled warm and sweet, like Nana. The comfort was too much. I threw up again, all over her nice blouse. I burst into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” But she didn’t scold me like Mom would have. She just felt my forehead. “Sweetheart, you’re burning up. You have a fever. We’re going to the hospital right now.” At the clinic, the doctor said my temperature was dangerously high. A few more hours, he said, and it could have caused permanent damage. They put me on an IV drip for two hours. By the time I was done, school was over. Mrs. Davis drove me back, gave my medicine to the driver waiting at the gate, and told me to rest. As I was about to get in the car, Pearl and her friends walked out. “Look, Stinky Weed is back!” one of them yelled. “Pearl, you’re not really going to ride with her, are you? She smells and she barfed all over the teacher.” They held their noses. One of the braver boys poked at the red bumps on my cheek with a pen. “What kind of weird disease is that? Is it contagious?” Pearl tossed her backpack at me, her face a mask of disgust. “Don’t you dare get me sick, Weed. You’re walking home today.” The driver didn’t dare argue with her. He just got in the car and drove away. I didn’t know the way home. I had to ask stranger after stranger, walking for what felt like miles until my stomach growled with hunger and I finally saw our house. My father opened the door. He grunted when he saw me. “Where have you been, messing around again? Look how late it is.” I started to lift my hand to show him the bruise from the IV, but he grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. Pearl was standing behind my mother, her face streaked with tears. My mother’s expression was cold and impatient. Her eyes bored into me. “Pearl says you stole something from her. Give it back. Now.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394222”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The pop-up bloomed on my husband’s laptop screen like a toxic flower. I’d been using his desktop in the home office to stream a show, a moment of quiet indulgence, when the AI assistant he was developing for the company made its presence known. [Hey there, boss man 😉 Time to log off. We need you rested for our main event tonight… 🔥] The font was a bubbly, almost childish script, framed by an explosion of digital pink hearts. I stared, the sound from my show fading into a dull roar in my ears. A single screenshot was all it took. I found him across town, charming a client over lunch at a rooftop restaurant. I didn’t wait for their small talk to conclude. I simply walked up to the table, phone in hand, and slid it in front of him. The screenshot glowed. “Care to explain?” Julian’s smile faltered for only a fraction of a second. Then, it returned, wider and more indulgent than before. He reached out and pinched my cheek, a gesture meant to be endearing that felt deeply condescending. “Sweetheart, relax. It’s just the in-house beta for a new AI companion. I’m running the final tests myself.” I held his gaze, my expression unreadable. “I see.” I nodded calmly, retrieved my phone, and turned to leave. Before I was even out of the restaurant, I was on a call to a trusted contact in our IT department. The IP address behind that “virtual girlfriend” was in my hands less than an hour later. I posted it in the company-wide executive channel, a digital space normally reserved for quarterly reports and market analysis. [Whoever this belongs to has one hour to come forward. Consider this your only chance at a graceful exit.] If you’re going to play me for a fool with my own money, you’d better be prepared for a very public, very ugly ruin. Chapter 1 The executive channel, usually buzzing with activity, fell into a dead, watchful silence. Five minutes later, the door to my office burst open. Julian. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his breathing ragged. He looked genuinely panicked. “Eleanor, please. It’s just a program. A test. You have to believe me.” He hadn’t come alone. A few of the company’s senior staff, the old guard loyal to him, trailed in his wake, ready to close ranks. “He’s right, Mrs. Croft,” our Head of Development said earnestly. “It’s a closed-loop internal beta. There’s no live operator on the other end.” “The dialogue is all pre-scripted,” another added, her tone placating. “Just placeholder content to test user engagement metrics.” Our Director of Technology, a man I’d known for years, even produced meeting minutes, pointing to a specific line item. “See, Eleanor? ‘AI Companion Dialogue Templates.’ We all brainstormed them. The goal was to increase user affinity and… stickiness.” He winced at the corporate jargon, knowing how I hated it. “Julian was just doing his due diligence for the team’s project. It would kill us to think you’d misunderstand his commitment.” Their words were a carefully constructed wall of defense, brick after brick laid to protect him. Julian took my hand, his eyes wide with the sincerity that had once been my undoing. “Honey, I am so sorry this upset you. I hate that it made you unhappy for even a second. If you don’t like it, I’ll pull the plug on the test right now. I’ll never touch it again.” He knew just how to wield that earnestness. It was the same look he’d given me when he was a brilliant, broke nobody with a world-changing idea. I hadn’t invested in the idea; I’d invested in him, in that unwavering belief in his eyes. I remembered the nights he’d slept at the office for two weeks straight, trying to make his first venture profitable. I never once questioned his dedication, just kept our home a sanctuary for him to return to. When he needed capital, I went to my father and not only secured the seed money but negotiated a deal where Julian would retain all profits for the first five years. That first business failed. I didn’t blame him. I told him he’d earned a priceless education in entrepreneurship and used my influence to bring him into my father’s company, Vance Sterling. The day he was promoted to President, at a party thrown in his honor, he proposed to me for the second time. He swore his love would remain as pure and fierce as it was in the beginning, that I would always be the only one. Every year on our anniversary, he would propose again, a ritual to prove, he said, that his heart had never strayed. By all accounts, his loyalty should have been forged in steel. I pressed my fingers to my temples, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. “I understand,” I said, waving them away. “I won’t pursue it any further.” A collective sigh of relief filled the room as they filed out. Julian’s shoulders slumped as he let out his own breath. He moved to embrace me, but I held up a hand, stopping him. I had already seen the full chat logs. The AI assistant messaged him every half hour. While most were benign reminders about his schedule or the weather, the language was cloyingly intimate, sometimes bordering on suggestive. And then there were the stickers—a custom set of reaction GIFs, all featuring the same woman, her face always artfully obscured. The curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, a hand brushing back a strand of hair. It was unmistakably the same person. Doubt, once planted, is a weed that grows in the dark. I had to know. Feigning a headache, I excused myself to the restroom. From the cool, quiet of the marble stall, I forwarded the IP address to a different contact—someone whose loyalty was to my family, not to my husband. The response came back in minutes. The user was located inside the Vance Sterling building. Cross-referencing the IP with HR network assignments took another ten minutes. And then I had a name. Chloe. A new intern in the Operations department. A sharp, acidic pang shot through my chest. No live operator, they had said. A chorus of liars, all of them. And now I had her name, her file, her face. The elevator ride down to the fourteenth floor felt like a slow, cold descent. I saw her immediately. In a sea of employees focused on their screens, she was the only one with a reality show playing in full-screen mode on her monitor. Her desk was an island of luxury: a row of expensive hand creams, imported snacks, and a personal humidifier humming softly, puffing a cloud of scented mist just for her. I walked into the open-plan office. Her eyes flickered towards me, a flash of recognition or perhaps alarm. In a single, swift motion, she slapped a small, framed photo on her desk face down. Chapter 2 As I approached her desk, she paused her show with a lazy click of the mouse. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. Had Julian given her this… this bubble of privilege? “Excuse me,” I began, my voice even and cool. “Is your workload so light that you have time for television?” Chloe glanced up at me, an unimpressed look on her young face. “I take a break when I’m tired. What’s it to you? Are you from facilities? Paper recycling is down the hall.” The employee at the next desk looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, but she managed a choked whisper. “Chloe… that’s Mrs. Croft. The founder’s daughter. The President’s wife.” Chloe’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. I just… I always pictured the President’s wife as being so glamorous. The thought never even crossed my mind. My mistake.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. Before I could speak, Chloe’s gaze darted to a point somewhere behind me, and her eyes instantly welled with tears. Her voice became a fragile whisper. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Croft… I’ll get back to work right away…” “What’s going on here?” Julian’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the office quiet from behind me. Instantly, the previously silent employees swarmed, their voices a chorus of concerned chatter. “Mrs. Croft was criticizing Chloe’s work ethic. The poor girl got so upset.” “Chloe finished all her tasks for the day. Her team lead said she could take a break. Mrs. Croft is being a little harsh.” I was stunned. Just moments ago, these people were silent, terrified of being caught in the crossfire. The second Julian appeared, they found their courage—all of it aimed squarely at me, in defense of her. “Enough,” Julian snapped. He pointed a stern finger at Chloe. “You. My office. Tomorrow morning. You’ll be reporting your work progress directly to me from now on.” Chloe lowered her head in submission, but I saw it—the ghost of a triumphant smirk on her lips. My heart twisted. Was it a punishment, or an invitation for a private rendezvous? I composed myself, raising my voice to address the entire department. “Actually, I’m not here to monitor productivity. I’m here to announce a corporate-wide hardware upgrade, starting with this department. Every computer is being replaced, effective immediately.” A wave of surprised excitement rippled through the staff. Only Chloe pouted. “That’s so sudden. I’m used to my computer. Can I opt out?” “No,” Julian said, his tone final. He then turned to me, a placating smile on his face. “My wife speaks for me on this. You will all follow her lead.” Chloe stared at him, her face flushing with disbelief and anger. I didn’t spare her another glance. I told Julian I was heading home and left without waiting for him. He came home early that evening, looking for all the world like a remorseful husband. In one hand, he held a cake from my favorite bakery; in the other, the designer handbag I’d admired a few weeks ago. His face was a mask of guilt. “Eleanor, I’m sorry. The AI beta test has been reassigned. I promise I will never again engage with anything that makes you doubt me.” I accepted the gifts, my voice flat. “It was for work. I understand.” He sighed, pulling me into an embrace I did not return. His voice was thick with manufactured pain. “I know I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. My phone password is your birthday. You can check it anytime you want. I have nothing to hide.” I nodded against his chest, saying nothing. Later, while he was in the shower, I opened his phone. It was pristine. Spotless. No suspicious apps, no hidden folders. And then, a notification lit up the screen. A text from a delivery service. [Your order from The Daily Grind has been delivered. Enjoy the hot beverage!] He’d ordered it for her. For her cramps, a little voice in my head whispered. Before coming home to apologize to me with cakes and handbags, he had made sure his mistress was comfortable. My hand trembled, the phone suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. I almost dropped it. He had become a stranger who wore my husband’s face. Chapter 3 I slept in the guest room. Sleep, however, never came. By morning, the tech team had replaced every computer in the Operations department. I located the tower that had belonged to Chloe and had my specialist retrieve it. Within hours, he had recovered the entire hard drive. Her machine also had a client for the AI assistant. And just as I suspected, the chat logs were all there. She was the AI, Julian’s “virtual girlfriend.” The theory I had wrestled with all night was now a cold, hard fact. A tremor ran through my hands. He had mobilized company resources, coerced senior employees into lying for him, all to protect this… affair. With a shaking hand, I clicked open the chat history. I saw now that the logs on his computer had been heavily edited. Hers told the full story. Julian, the doting lover, was a character I had never known. To buy her a single latte without raising suspicion, he’d ordered coffee for her entire fifty-person department. To ensure her internship was a breeze, he lowered the performance quotas for everyone on her team. He asked her what color stockings she was wearing. What style of underwear. They had a place. A meeting spot they called their “nest.” Just last week, they had planned to meet there. She had asked if she should bring a morning-after pill. His reply was simple: No need. Followed by another message. [Our baby would be stronger than anything she could ever carry.] The words on the screen blurred. I felt as if lightning had struck the base of my spine. Last year, I was pregnant with his child. Our child. He came home one night after a client dinner, drunk. He called me to open the garage door for him, and in his stupor, he hit the accelerator instead of the brake. He pinned me against the wall. The baby was gone. When he sobered up, he fell to his knees, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He swore he would pray for our lost child’s soul every single day. I had forgiven him. For us, for our future, I had buried the pain and forgiven him. And now this. The man who killed our child was telling another woman that I was too weak to be a mother. A tremor, violent and cold, seized my entire body. I gripped the mouse so hard I thought the plastic might crack. I sat there in the dark, the screen’s glow illuminating my face, until the city lights outside my window began to blur into the dawn. My life, thirty years of it, felt like it was fracturing at the seams. I saved everything, every file, every chat log. Then I drove to the office to find Julian, who had texted me to say he was working late. I saw his car in his designated VIP spot in the underground garage, its lights flashing once as he unlocked it. And then I saw them. He and Chloe, emerging from two different elevator banks, their paths converging at his black sedan. I shrank back into the shadows behind a concrete pillar. They didn’t even make it into the car. The moment they reached each other, they fell into a desperate, hungry kiss, like two lovers who had been starved of each other for years. When the kiss finally broke, Julian framed her face with his hands, his voice a low, intense murmur. “Just wait. As soon as I’m named Chairman tomorrow, I’ll find a way to make Eleanor… disappear. Then we can be together, forever.” Chloe gazed up at him, her eyes shining with adoration. “I know you’ve been planning this for years, Julian. I’ll wait. I know you’ll succeed.” A chill so profound it felt like ice water flooding my veins shot up my spine. My knees buckled, and I had to brace myself against the pillar to keep from collapsing. My heart felt like it was being shredded. This wasn’t just an affair. It was a long con. My entire life with him, our marriage, his career… it was all a stepping stone. He had used me. He had used my family. He had used our dead child. I waited until their taillights vanished up the ramp before I stumbled out of the darkness. I didn’t go home that night. Julian called and texted, a frantic barrage of feigned concern. I sent him a single reply: [See you at the shareholder meeting tomorrow.] That was all it took. He immediately relaxed, texting back a simple, “Sleep well, honey,” not even bothering to ask where I was. The next day, I walked into the boardroom precisely on time. Julian’s face lit up when he saw me. He rushed over with the proxy voting form. As the majority shareholder, I usually delegated my voting rights to him. Today was his coronation, the day he would leverage my shares to secure the Chairmanship of my father’s company. My 40% stake would guarantee his victory. I signed the document. As I handed it back, I glanced across the room and saw Chloe, standing proudly among the employee representatives, a smug smile on her face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “394221”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel