His childhood sweetheart was trapped in an elevator shaft for half an hour. In a blind rage, my husband shoved me into a suitcase and zipped it shut. “You will suffer double what she suffered,” he snarled. Curled in the suffocating darkness, I gasped for air, my tears and apologies met only with his cold reprimand. “Take your punishment. A good lesson will teach you to behave.” He locked the suitcase, with me inside it, in the wardrobe. I screamed. I struggled. Blood seeped from the seams of the case, staining the floorboards. Five days later, in a moment of fleeting pity, he decided to end my punishment. “A small lesson to teach a greater one,” he mused. “I’ll let you off this time.” But he didn’t know. He couldn’t have known. My body had already rotted into an unrecognizable sludge. … 1 “That jealous shrew… has she learned her lesson yet? Why hasn’t she been causing trouble the last few days?” “See? A little punishment is all it takes to make her understand her place.” His assistant’s face suddenly went pale. “Mr. Briggs… about your wife… I… I don’t think she’s been let out yet.” A tremor went through Gabriel’s hand, but he quickly suppressed it. “A few more days of reflection won’t hurt her.” His assistant hesitated, then spoke again, his voice trembling. “Sir, a… a terrible smell is coming from the room where you locked Mrs. Briggs. Perhaps… you should go and see?” Gabriel’s voice turned to ice. “A smell? Of course there’s a smell. A woman like her, so desperate to cling to life, she’d do anything to survive. She’s probably eating her own waste. What do you expect?” The assistant tried to speak again, but Gabriel cut him off, his face a mask of disgust. “Enough. I’ll let her out tomorrow. A few days should be enough to teach her some manners. When she comes out, she will apologize properly to Evelyn, and we can put this all behind us.” Just as he finished speaking, Evelyn appeared in the doorway, barefoot and ethereal. Gabriel’s expression melted into one of profound tenderness. “Evie, are you still having nightmares? Don’t worry, I’ve punished Claire severely. I’ll make her pay a thousand times over for what you went through.” He swept her into his arms, his fingers gently tracing the line of her hair. “Gabriel, you’re the best to me,” Evelyn murmured into his chest, her voice a sweet, childish purr. “I’m sure Claire knows she was wrong now. I only wanted an apology, I never wanted her to be punished. She won’t blame me, will she?” Watching their cloying display of affection, I couldn’t help but laugh. A silent, hollow laugh that disturbed nothing. I was already dead. In the last, suffocating moments of my life, my soul had drifted free from that cramped, terrifying suitcase. From this third-person perspective, I could see the dark, crusted stains of blood that had soaked through the fabric. The wardrobe that held my tomb was secured with a heavy padlock, as if to ensure its prisoner would never, ever escape. Even as a spirit, the sight of that scene, the memory of the airless dark, made me want to shut my eyes. Meanwhile, Gabriel was whispering sweet reassurances to Evelyn. “Another nightmare? Don’t be afraid. I’ll always be here to protect you.” He gently stroked her cheek. “You’ve been through so much, my poor Evie.” His voice hardened. “Do you know what she’s like? She’s so desperate to live, she’d even… she’d consume her own filth. A person who values her own life so much, yet she dared to harm you. I’ll make her pay.” I hovered there, stunned into a state beyond tears. Gabriel was right. I did desperately want to live. The suitcase was too small. To make me fit, he had bent my arm back until the bone snapped. I had endured the searing pain, tried to find a way to escape, and when I realized it was hopeless, I focused on conserving my energy, on trying to last as long as possible. But he had forgotten. He had forgotten that when he forced me into that box, I was pregnant. The prolonged, contorted position put unbearable pressure on my belly. A sharp, stabbing pain made me lose control. I thrashed, but it was useless. In the final moments of my life, a primal, desperate will to survive took over. I screamed, I clawed at the zipper with my toenails, fighting for one last sliver of hope. His only response was a cold, merciless judgment from the other side of the door. “You’re this terrified? Imagine how helpless Evie must have felt. You stay in there and feel the pain. It’s the only way you’ll learn.” I had confessed. I had admitted to crimes I didn’t commit, begging him to let me out. Then, a warm gush of blood spread from between my legs, and my strength finally gave out. Through a haze of fading consciousness, I heard his final verdict. “She’s too loud. Still doesn’t know the rules. Lock it up. Let her reflect in silence.” I tried to plead, my voice a strangled rasp, but I could do nothing but listen as the heavy padlock clicked into place, extinguishing the last sliver of light, and my life along with it. 2 “Go and let Claire out. Tell her to clean herself up before she comes to apologize. I don’t want her stinking up the place and offending Evie’s eyes.” Gabriel’s tone was dismissive. The assistant nodded uncomfortably. Evelyn’s eyes sparkled as she clung to Gabriel’s arm. “Gabriel, when Claire comes out, you have to be nice to her. Don’t be angry anymore. You two are married, after all. You shouldn’t fight so ugly.” A flicker of annoyance crossed Gabriel’s face, but his hand gently kneaded her fingers. “She wouldn’t dare be angry. Because of her carelessness, you were trapped in that elevator for half an hour. I can’t even imagine how scared and helpless you must have been. Evie, you’re just too good, too kind. That’s why she takes advantage of you.” His voice was thick with repressed rage, as if he were afraid of frightening her. But to my ears, his words were a symphony of mockery. A week ago, while Gabriel was in a board meeting, Evelyn had come to our apartment to provoke me. “So what if you’re pregnant? He’ll never love the baby. It will be just as pathetic and unloved as you are.” I didn’t bother to argue. I just told her to get out. But on her way down, the elevator malfunctioned. She got stuck between floors. Trapped, she sent a long, dramatic farewell text to Gabriel, saying she probably wouldn’t make it out alive. “I know Claire doesn’t like me. I just hope that after I’m gone, she can take good care of you in my place.” “Gabriel, my love, perhaps we’ll meet in the next life.” The moment Gabriel saw the message, he abandoned his meeting and raced home like a madman, mobilizing every emergency service in the city. He finally found her, unconscious, in the elevator shaft. I had stood nearby, watching him cradle her in his arms, his anguished cries echoing in the hallway. “Evie, don’t leave me…” At the time, I thought they were ridiculous. Trapped for half an hour, and they were acting like it was a life-and-death tragedy. It was only when Gabriel grabbed me by the hair and brutally folded me into the suitcase that I understood. The love was for them. The tragedy was for me. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he had roared, his face contorted with rage. “Evie has claustrophobia! You almost killed her! Even if she survives, she’ll be scarred for life!” “Claire, I’m going to teach you that you can’t just do whatever you want because you’re my wife. If you don’t admit you were wrong, you are never getting out of there.” And now, he was still waiting, his face a cold mask, for me to come crawling back to him, begging for forgiveness. Too bad for him. That was never going to happen. “Sir… Sir! Mrs. Briggs… she… she’s not breathing! There’s no sign of life!” Gabriel froze for a second. I watched him closely, thinking, hoping for at least a flicker of remorse. He just laughed, a casual, dismissive sound. “She’s acting. The wicked live long. You think she’d die that easily?” He tapped his fingers on the desk, his voice detached. “If she’s dead, call the crematorium. Have them come and get her. If she loves pretending to be dead so much, let’s show her the consequences.” He turned to his assistant, his voice sharp. “Go and tell her she has half an hour to get cleaned up and come here. If she doesn’t, the punishment continues until she learns to stop her games.” The assistant was trembling, but before he could speak, Gabriel snapped, “Still standing there? Do you want to be punished too?” He wrapped his arm around Evelyn, his voice softening. “Evie, when she comes, you can’t be soft on her. You have to be strong. I’m going to make her kneel and apologize to you. That’s her punishment. You can’t feel sorry for her, do you understand?” Evelyn looked at him, her eyes wide with feigned compassion. “Oh, Gabriel…” I couldn’t even summon the energy to hate them anymore. But for some reason, my soul felt tethered, unable to leave. I was forced to watch as Gabriel mocked me, laughed at me. 3 This was the man I had loved for ten years. Three years of high school, four years of university, and three years of dating and marriage. What I never knew was that from the very beginning, he saw me as nothing more than a stain on his life. I had followed him like a shadow for seven years, believing my devotion could melt his icy exterior. The day he accepted my confession of love, I was so happy I couldn’t sleep. What I didn’t know was that he only agreed to marry me because his company’s funding had dried up, and he needed an infusion of my family’s capital. In our two years of marriage, I had poured everything I had into supporting his career. I took care of him, catered to his every need, tried to win him over. And slowly, he seemed to change. He started waiting up for me, making me breakfast, gently massaging my stomach when I had cramps. I almost, almost believed I had finally won his love. The day I found out I was pregnant, I was ecstatic, practically dancing around him. But his reaction was ice cold. “Claire. You’re saying you’re pregnant?” I didn’t hear the suspicion in his voice. I just nodded eagerly. “Hah,” he scoffed. “But I have a low sperm count. It’s nearly impossible for me to father a child. You know where that baby came from, don’t you?” I desperately tried to prove my innocence. I relayed the doctor’s words to him. “After nine weeks, we can do a test. I would never, ever betray you.” What I didn’t know was that on the very day I discovered my pregnancy, Evelyn had returned to the country. He had told her about my pregnancy, treating it like a joke. The iceberg I had spent a decade trying to melt had refrozen in an instant. Can a soul feel heartache? All I knew was that I couldn’t breathe. The suffocating despair of the suitcase washed over me again. Gabriel, still holding Evelyn, grew more and more agitated. “Why is she taking so long? After all this time to reflect, she still hasn’t learned her lesson? Is she trying to spite me?” He muttered under his breath, “Your bones better be as hard as your head, Claire.” I watched him, a cold spectator. His hand, which had been calmly playing with a string of prayer beads, was now fumbling, his movements agitated. A flicker of unease crossed his face. “Evie, I’m going to see what she’s up to. Don’t worry, I’ll make her come and apologize to you.” He stood up and strode toward the room where I was confined. As he neared the door, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “What is that smell?” The assistant stood behind him, his shirt soaked with cold sweat. “Mr. Briggs… you should see for yourself.” I didn’t know what to feel. My spirit tensed. It would take courage to face the gruesome reality of my own death. Gabriel pushed the door open. The suitcase had been dragged out of the wardrobe and thrown onto the floor. The zipper was partially open, then hastily covered again. He stared at it, annoyed. “Claire, I let you out, and you’re still hiding? You plan on living in there forever?” Was it that I didn’t want to come out? I had fought until my last breath, just for one more glimpse of the sun. But there were no more chances. “Still throwing a tantrum? I give you an inch, and you take a mile, is that it?” He walked over to the suitcase. The stench was so overpowering it made his eyes water, but he didn’t stop. He lifted his foot and kicked it. “You stink! Go and clean yourself up! Who are you trying to disgust?” He kicked it hard. The suitcase toppled over, the lid flying open. And there I was, in all my horrifying glory. The body inside was twisted into an unnatural shape, my arm bent back at a ninety-degree angle. The look of terror was frozen on my face, my eyes and mouth stretched wide, my eyeballs bulging. My lower body was caked in a dark, dried crust of blood. Gabriel stumbled back, his voice shaking. 4 “Who put this… this dead thing in here to scare me? Where’s Claire? Find her! Does she think she can just plant a mannequin here and escape? I’m not an idiot! Find her, now!” I laughed until spiritual tears streamed down my face. What was this act of feigned ignorance? I was lying right there, my body rotting. Where else was he going to find me? “Mr. Briggs, your wife… she’s dead! The body is decomposing!” the assistant stammered. Gabriel glared at him. “You’re lying! You’re helping her trick me? Do you think I’m a fool? That I’ll see a smelly mannequin and believe she’s dead? I’ll tear this city apart, but I will find her!” He stormed out, ordering the room to be locked again, and sent his men to search for me. Evelyn saw his grim face and hurried to his side, wrapping her arms around his neck. “What’s wrong, Gabriel? Did Claire make you angry again? Don’t worry, Evie’s here for you.” He picked her up and sat on the sofa, his voice still trembling. “She’s gone too far this time. Faking her own death to run away! But no matter where she goes, I’ll find her. She still owes you an apology, and I’ll make her say it to your face.” So, even after seeing my corpse, he refused to believe it. Was it just because he needed me alive to apologize to Evelyn? I felt a wave of pathetic, self-deprecating humor. He pulled up the security footage from the room. The video clearly showed me being locked in, my struggles, my screams, and then… the gradual silence. But Gabriel still wouldn’t believe it. “The footage is the same at the end. It would be easy to edit. Claire, you really are a master of deception.” He slammed his fist into the computer monitor. Evelyn yelped, startled by his sudden violence, and clung to him, her eyes wide. Gabriel immediately softened, his voice turning gentle again. “It’s okay, Evie, don’t be scared. I’m just angry that she’s so irresponsible. Trying to just run away! Don’t you worry. I’ll have her back here before your birthday. And then, I’ll make her kneel before everyone and beg for your forgiveness!” A triumphant gleam appeared in Evelyn’s eyes. She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. It was a fleeting touch, but it made Gabriel blush. Even I felt a little embarrassed for them. Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude on your little moment. I had always known about Evelyn. I knew about her from the moment I first fell for Gabriel. His social media profile picture was a childhood photo of the two of them. In it, a tiny Evelyn beamed at the camera, and he looked at her with an adoration that was impossible to hide. Some people’s love is just like that: blatant and unapologetic. Just like mine.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393339”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Reborn, I decided to write my brother’s name on the marriage application. This time, I would give Cathy what she always wanted. This time, I would be the one to dress my brother in the groom’s suit, to place the engagement ring on his finger. I would personally orchestrate every one of their “fateful” encounters. When she took him to the capital, I wouldn’t say a word. I would pack my bags and head south, to a university by the sea. I was doing this because in my last life, even when I was past fifty, she and our son were still on their knees, begging me for a divorce. Begging me to finally let her and my brother be together. Reborn, all I wanted was to spread my wings and fly, far away from the tangled mess of love. 1. “Just fill in the name and give it to me.” Cathy tapped her manicured nails impatiently on the table. I stared down at the marriage application, my fingertips tracing the rough edge of the paper. My mind drifted. In my last life, I had treated this document like a sacred decree, reverently writing my own name before dragging a reluctant Cathy out to buy wedding candies. I’d been met with a torrent of abuse for my trouble, all because she was in a hurry to get home and make soup for my “sickly” younger brother, Michael. “I know, I know,” I mumbled, feigning compliance. I glanced up, taking in her antsy expression, the way her eyes kept flicking to her watch. She was wearing a crisp, white shirtdress, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing slender forearms. I remembered how Michael had always loved her in this outfit, saying it made her look clean and fresh. “If you’re busy, you can go ahead,” I said, forcing a casual tone to mask the bitterness rising in my throat. “I can turn this in myself when I’m done.” Relief washed over her face, and her voice softened. “Look, since we’re getting married, I will be responsible for you,” she said, as if granting a great favor. “But you need to stop being so jealous of Michael. It’s not good for his reputation if people find out.” I said nothing. In my past life, I had explained myself a thousand times, but in her eyes, I was always the petty, jealous older brother, incapable of tolerating my kind, gentle sibling. She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and hurried away. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. The memories of my past life flooded back, a relentless tide. On our wedding night, she used the excuse of taking care of a sick Michael to stay out all night. When she was assigned a post in the capital with the military, she took only Michael with her, saying he’d never seen the city before. Even on the day our own son turned one month old, Cathy was too busy consoling a newly divorced Michael to show up. Right up until the end, on my deathbed, our son was still pleading with me. “Dad, just divorce Mom. You’ve never been as good as Uncle Michael. Mom has suffered by your side for so many years. Just let her go.” I looked over at my wife, standing cold and silent by my hospital bed. Her silence was all the confirmation I needed. I bit down hard on my lip, not letting go until I tasted the coppery tang of blood. No. Not this life. I would not make the same mistakes. I picked up the pen, and in the space for the applicant’s name, I slowly, deliberately, wrote two words: Michael Shaw. Cathy, since you love him so much, your wish is my command. I handed the completed application to the clerk, took the marriage certificate, and walked out of the city hall. I wasn’t sad. Instead, I felt an exhilarating, unfamiliar sense of freedom. 2. In my last life, Michael and I were adopted by Cathy’s family after our parents died in the line of duty. Michael, with his sweet talk and clever ways, had charmed Cathy’s parents until they treated him better than their own son. Cathy’s mother had long harbored the desire for Michael to marry her daughter. But Michael, with a simple, “I don’t want to compete with my brother,” had magnanimously stepped aside, paving the way for Cathy to marry me. In reality, he was just keeping her on the hook. At the time, Cathy was just an ordinary soldier; he was waiting for a better prospect to come along. I went to the local high school, got all the information I needed about university applications, tuition, and living expenses. Only then did I head back. When I stepped into the apartment provided for Cathy’s military family, I heard Michael’s soft voice. “Cathy, he’s going to be angry, isn’t he? You running back to be with me instead of him.” “It doesn’t matter when I spend time with him,” Cathy’s voice was firm. “You’re not well. I can’t leave you here alone.” Michael laughed, a happy, boyish sound. Then his tone turned wistful. “Will you still be nice to me after you and my brother get married?” “Of course,” Cathy said without hesitation. “Who else would I be nice to? If your brother ever mistreats you, I’ll divorce him in a heartbeat.” I clenched my fists so tightly my knuckles turned white, fighting back a wave of heartache. Even in this new life, hearing my wife speak of me with such casual disregard still hurt. I composed myself and walked into the room as if I had heard nothing. 3. Cathy emerged from Michael’s room, a faint blush on her cheeks. “I… I was just checking on Michael. He wasn’t feeling well.” I gave a noncommittal grunt and turned to go to my own room. In my last life, I had fought with her endlessly over their overly familiar behavior. This life, I refused to waste the energy. “Jasper,” she called out, stopping me. “Maybe we should buy some wedding candies to share with the neighbors in the complex?” I shot her a surprised look. This must be her way of compensating for my lack of a jealous outburst. “No need,” I said flatly. “There’s no point in such formalities.” She blinked, clearly taken aback. She couldn’t imagine me refusing such a proposal. “Is it because you’re mad at Cathy for taking care of me, brother?” Michael appeared from his room, his face a perfect picture of innocence and hurt. And he was wearing the Lenin-style suit I had specifically bought to wear for our wedding photos. I had scrimped and saved for six months to afford it in my past life. I’d never even worn it once. He followed my gaze and stammered an explanation. “I saw this suit on your bed today, brother. I thought it looked nice, so I tried it on. I… I forgot to take it off.” He hung his head, wringing his hands like a chastised child. Cathy started to intervene. “Jasper, don’t…” I cut her off, my voice calm. “It suits you. You can have it. I’ve never worn it anyway.” I could smell the faint, sour scent of sweat and something else—something metallic, like blood—on the fabric. The thought of it now made my stomach turn. Leaving them staring in stunned silence, I went to my room and locked the door. 4. I pulled out a folder. Inside was my acceptance letter to Havenport University, in the south. I had always loved the south. And it was for my favorite subject, economics. In my last life, I gave up my education for Cathy, willingly staying home to take care of her and her family. This time, thank God, it wasn’t too late. This time, I was going to live for myself. I checked the calendar. Ten days. Ten days until I could leave this place for good. Time was short, and I had to make every second count. A knock on the door. I opened it, annoyed. Cathy stood there, holding a bowl of noodles, her voice soft. “You must be hungry. I made you some noodles.” For a second, I was disoriented. In my past life, she was either ice-cold or spitting venom at me. This gentle, caring Cathy was a ghost I hadn’t seen in a very long time. “No, thanks. I ate out.” “You did? But you never spend money on things like that.” Her words stung. It was true. I used to be frugal to a fault, spending every penny I earned from odd jobs on her, buying her things. Now, with university looming, every cent had to be carefully accounted for. I met her eyes, my voice even. “A few days ago, I gave you fifty dollars to buy things for the wedding. You didn’t seem to buy anything. I’d like it back.” She froze, then stammered, “That money… I used it to buy Michael a pair of leather shoes.” I couldn’t help but sneer inwardly. Of course. It was always the same. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to bed.” “I’ll give you the money tomorrow,” she snapped, her tone turning hostile. “We’re husband and wife. Do you really have to be so petty?” A cold laugh escaped me. “So, I’m not even allowed to be petty when you use my hard-earned money to buy things for another man?” She knew she was in the wrong, but she still muttered, “Unbelievable,” under her breath. I was done arguing. I slammed the door in her face. 5. Over the next few days, I started selling off my possessions. The mementos from my past life, once filled with cherished memories, now seemed like cheap, worthless junk. I bundled them all up and sold them to a scrap collector for a pittance. As I was packing my suitcase that afternoon, Cathy appeared, fifty dollars clutched in her hand. “Here’s your money,” she said, her voice stiff. I took it and nodded. “Thanks.” She watched me, her expression complicated, her eyes falling on my half-packed suitcase. “I’m planning on having Michael come with me to the capital first. You don’t need to pack.” I didn’t stop what I was doing. I just nodded again. She seemed unnerved by my placid attitude. “What’s wrong with you lately? You’re like a different person.” I turned to her, my patience wearing thin. I didn’t want any last-minute complications. Cathy didn’t love me, but if she found out the marriage license had Michael’s name on it, she might just drag me back to the city hall to fix it, all for his sake. I wanted nothing more to do with either of them. “It’s nothing. Just clearing things out,” I lied. “After you leave for the capital, I thought I’d move back to the countryside.” She visibly relaxed. “I’m not trying to leave you behind,” she explained. “It’s just… Michael’s never seen the capital, and he really wants to go. Once I get settled, I’ll send for you in a few months.” I nodded absently. In my last life, she never sent for me. Not for eight long years. Not until Michael married a high-ranking officer’s daughter and broke her heart. Only then did she summon me to the capital. She looked at me, uneasy. Usually, when we were alone, I would be the one chattering away. Now, my silence seemed to make her anxious. “You’ve always wanted to take wedding photos, haven’t you? Let’s go to the studio tomorrow.” No way. I had plans to buy supplies for university tomorrow. I was about to make an excuse when Michael walked in, draping his arm familiarly around Cathy’s shoulders. “Cathy, what photo studio? I want to take pictures too!” Cathy smiled, ruffling his hair. “Okay, we’ll all go together tomorrow.” “You two go,” I said. “I have something to do.” Cathy frowned. “What could be more important than our wedding photos? We’ll go first, then I’ll help you with whatever you need to buy.” Her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. Michael chimed in. “Yeah, brother. You’re not trying to avoid going because of me, are you?” I didn’t want to argue. I just nodded. 6. Early the next morning, I could hear Cathy in Michael’s room, coaxing him to get out of bed in a low, sweet voice. The bright red number on the calendar screamed at me. Four days left. Four days until I was free. By the time they finally emerged, my patience was worn thin. Cathy bustled around, fetching hot water, personally washing Michael’s face for him. I must have been blind in my past life to ever believe that if I just married her, she would one day treat me with such tenderness. As I was lost in thought, Cathy approached me awkwardly, a small ring pinched between her fingers. “Mrs. Zhou said it’s fashionable to exchange rings now. I bought one for you.” I didn’t take it. There was no ring in my last life. Michael saw it and immediately pouted. “That’s so nice! I want one too!” I magnanimously gestured. “Then you can have it.” Cathy’s face darkened. “Don’t be ridiculous, this is our wedding ring!” Michael snatched the ring, slipped it onto his own finger, and waggled it at Cathy. “Cathy, doesn’t it look good on me?” Cathy’s expression melted into one of pure adoration. She smiled and nodded. Then, she turned to me, her voice a guilty whisper. “I’ll… I’ll buy you another one next time.” I just nodded, unfazed. I had heard her promises before. None of them ever came true.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393338”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day before my audition for the National Arts Academy, I was dragged into the woods by a group of thugs. For a day and a night, they tormented me. When I was finally found, my legs were broken, my face a mask of blood. My father, who had missed my desperate calls for help because he was “in a meeting,” wept with guilt. My brother, Lex, was on the phone with his medical school mentor, begging them to arrange an emergency surgery. In the hazy space between consciousness and oblivion, I heard my brother’s hushed voice. “Dad, hiring those guys to… ‘teach Stella a lesson’ at school… don’t you think we went too far? Even if you wanted to clear the way for Marie, to stop Stella from auditioning, there had to be another way.” My father was holding me in the back seat of the car, gently brushing stray hairs from my forehead. “Stella has been targeting Marie at school constantly. This was the only way to make her back off, to stop getting in Marie’s way.” He sighed. “Besides, I’ll let her inherit the company. That should be compensation enough.” My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. A deep, glacial cold seeped into my bones. The happy family I thought I had, the doting father and loving brother… it was all a lie. … “The patient is in critical condition. The surgical team is ready. Should we proceed immediately?” a nurse asked. My father’s answer was chillingly calm. “Wait until tomorrow.” The doctor was taken aback. “Sir, both of her legs have been shattered. If we don’t operate now, the bones won’t set properly. She’ll have a severe limp for the rest of her life.” My brother chimed in, his voice tight with concern. “Dad, she’s so young. We can’t let her become a cripple.” “That’s the point!” my father hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I want her to limp. We’ve come this far; I have to ensure nothing stands in Marie’s way at the audition. Only by completely destroying Stella’s dream of dancing can Marie pursue her own without fear.” “That’s enough. Just have the doctors give her some painkillers for now.” Lying on the gurney, I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood, but a sob still escaped my throat. My father, the man who had treated me like the most precious jewel in the world, now terrified me to my very core. I finally understood. I understood why, after my mother died, he had suddenly showered me with such overwhelming affection. It wasn’t to assuage his guilt over her death. It was to dull my ambition, to make me soft and dependent, all to pave the way for his illegitimate daughter. And my brother, the person I adored most in the world, cared more for Marie than for his own sister. The two men I trusted with my life were destroying me for another woman. The more I thought, the more the grief choked me, and I let out a racking cough. My father burst into the room, his face a mask of concern. He tenderly wiped the tears from my eyes. “Did you have a nightmare, sweetheart? Don’t be scared, Daddy’s here.” He patted my back, murmuring stories to soothe me, just like when I was a child. He was always so good at playing the part of the loving father. My brother spun around and ran out. “Get the doctor! Use the most expensive anesthetic! I don’t want my sister to feel another second of pain!” The concern on their faces looked so real. And yet, it was all part of the lie I was living in, a world of pain and deceit they had built around me. My heart seized, and for a moment, I thought I would pass out. The doctor returned, expertly cutting away my ruined clothes to administer the medication. That’s when my father offered his explanation. “Stella, your injuries are too severe. I’m afraid a rushed surgery might go wrong. Why don’t we wait for the top specialists to arrive tomorrow before we set the bones, okay?” He squeezed my hand. “Don’t you worry. Daddy promises, he’ll get you back on that stage.” A single tear traced a path down my temple. I couldn’t stop myself from asking, my voice a broken whisper, “Dad… can I really… can I ever go back to the stage?” He flinched, his eyes darting away for a split second. Then he sighed, meeting my gaze again. “Stella, when have I ever lied to you?” The pain in my legs had faded to a dull, terrifying numbness. What choice did I have? I lowered my eyes. “Okay, Dad. I’ll listen to you.” A smile touched his lips. “That’s my good girl…” But his words died in his throat. As the doctor cut away the last of my trousers, revealing the mangled flesh beneath, my father let out a strangled gasp. “My God… what happened?!” Those thugs, they had made a game of it, competing to see who could make me scream the loudest. Below my knees, my legs were a ruin of shattered bone and pulp. My brother couldn’t bear to look. He turned his face away, his shoulders shaking. The doctor shook his head in disgust. “What kind of animal could do something so vicious? Young lady, you’ll have to be brave, this is going to hurt…” I slowly shook my head. “It’s okay…” Because I couldn’t feel a thing anymore. While the doctor worked, I heard my father and brother talking again just outside the door. Lex’s voice was low. “She’s already like this… Do we still have to leak the video of her… of the assault?” My father was silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said, his voice flat. “Do it. No prestigious arts academy will accept a student with a ruined reputation.” Tears burst from my eyes. “Did I hurt you?” the doctor asked, alarmed. I shook my head, unable to tell if the pain was in my body or in my soul. The two most important men in my life hadn’t just broken my body. They were determined to shatter my spirit, too. In that moment, I wanted to scream at them, Are we family, or are we enemies? A few minutes later, my phone began to buzz incessantly. When I managed to look, I saw it. The video of my assault, posted across all the school’s online forums and gossip sites. Beneath it, a flood of comments, slandering and defaming me. 【That’s Stella Wenner. I know her. She’s always been a slut, acting all high and mighty. She totally had this coming!】 【Can confirm, her personal life is a mess. And she’s a huge bully at school, a real bitch.】 【I wonder what her CEO dad will think when he sees what a piece of trash his daughter really is?】 Each comment was a dagger twisting in my heart. I began to tremble uncontrollably. My brother rushed to my side, his hand covering my eyes. “Stella, don’t look.” My father snatched the phone away, roaring at my brother. “Lex, what the hell happened?! I thought you were handling this!” Lex looked stricken with guilt. “I tried to block it, Dad, but someone must have secretly filmed it. Don’t worry, Stella. I’ll get every copy taken down right now!” Their performance was seamless, a perfectly coordinated act. Every detail was designed to fool me. And it made me sick to my stomach. My father knelt before me, his eyes sincere. “Stella, no matter what happens, you will always be my precious daughter, the apple of my eye.” My brother nodded vigorously. “That’s right, Stella. I’ll always love you.” The video was taken down quickly. But not before countless copies had been made, spreading like wildfire. My reputation was destroyed. Even if my body healed, my life as I knew it was over. And my dream of dancing on a stage was dead. After a full examination, the doctor returned, his face grave. “The patient has multiple fractures in her legs, two broken ribs, and severe burns on her arms.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “But the worst part… her face has been slashed more than a dozen times with a razor blade. It’s… moderate disfigurement.” My father froze, his face turning to stone. “Moderate… disfigurement?” My brother’s eyes turned red. “How… how could this happen?” I remembered it all. The glint of the blades as they slashed down. Me, on my knees in the dirt, begging them to stop. My screams echoing in a forest that wouldn’t answer. That day and night would be a nightmare I’d never wake from. “Doctor,” my father’s voice was strained, “whatever it costs, you must fix my daughter’s face!” “We’ll do our best,” the doctor promised. My father, the proudest man I knew, shed tears in front of me for the first time. “Don’t be scared, Stella. Daddy will make you a princess again, adored by all.” But I didn’t believe him anymore. After they left to “handle things,” I pushed myself into a wheelchair and wheeled myself out into the empty hallway. I dialed the overseas number. “I’ve made up my mind,” I said into the phone. “I want to claim my mother’s inheritance.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393337”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our wedding eve, Princess Hayley was caught with another man in the hunting lodge. The King, fearing my family would withdraw support, was furious. She remained calm. “Henry won’t leave me,” she said smugly. “He’s too infatuated.” The King seethed. “This isn’t a game! You’ll end things with Julian—now!” Behind the tapestry, my heart stalled. So, she’d only agreed to marry me to be with him. Hayley scoffed and left. I stepped out. The King sighed. “I tried to reason with her, but—” I shook my head. “A gentleman doesn’t steal love. If the alliance matters, consider your sister, Vanessa.” 1 My proposal left the King utterly stunned. “Henry, you can’t be serious. Vanessa… she’s a widow. You wouldn’t mind that?” “The Duchess and I are of a similar age,” I replied smoothly. “She should not be condemned to a life of hollow mourning for a husband she never even met, who passed so young. It is no life for a woman in her prime.” After a tense negotiation, the King finally consented to the match between me and his sister, Vanessa. When it came down to it, if Hayley’s scandal became public, it would be an unbearable stain on the royal family’s honor. “Your Majesty, these are the tributes from the Khergit envoys.” Handing the ledger to the King, I took my leave and made my way to Princess Hayley’s residence. It was almost laughable. For years, I had bent to her every whim, done everything in my power to earn a single glance of affection. I had come to the palace today hoping to impress my future father-in-law, only to stumble upon this… revelation. The moment I stepped into her opulent villa, a flicker of panic crossed Hayley’s face, swiftly replaced by a blaze of fury. “Henry Valerius! Who gave you permission to enter my home as you please?!” she snapped. “I’m warning you, one more disrespectful move and I’ll tell my father the wedding is off! Don’t think a royal decree means I’m chained to you!” In the past, my jealousy over Julian had made me obsessive. I’d followed her, constantly seeking reassurance, my mind a frantic mess of suspicion and anxiety. I had debased myself, all for the chance to marry her. Her current reaction, I supposed, was to be expected. “Good,” I said, my voice flat. “Because as it happens, you’re not the one I want to marry anymore.” Hayley let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Oh, stop posturing. You think I don’t know you? You groveled at my feet for months, wrote me endless letters, followed me around like a pathetic lapdog I couldn’t shake off!” I knew then that arguing was pointless. She was utterly convinced, deep in her bones, that I would never, ever give up on our marriage. As I turned to leave, my eyes caught a tell-tale mark on her throat, a flush of crimson just below her ear. The King’s words from the study echoed in my mind. There was only one explanation. It was from Julian. A woman of her station was meant to guard her reputation fiercely; a princess, even more so. Yet for Julian, Hayley was willing to cast aside all decorum, all honor. It was clear she loved him to the point of madness. Even knowing I would never marry her, a bitter resentment churned in my gut. An acidic burn rose in my throat, choking back the accusations I longed to hurl. I turned back, my gaze locking onto hers, searching, pleading for a flicker of shame, of guilt. She must have misinterpreted my stare. She snatched a porcelain teacup from the table and threw it at me. It shattered at my feet. “Staring at a lady’s neck? Is that the famed Valerius etiquette you’re so proud of?!” she shrieked. “Don’t think I don’t know what filthy thoughts are running through your head! Let me tell you something—even if we do get married, if you ever dare to force yourself on me, I’ll have my father ruin your entire house!” My expression turned to ice. A humorless smile touched my lips. “Rest assured, Princess. I have absolutely no interest in you.” “Don’t you lie to me! The only reason you’re so desperate to marry me is for what’s between my legs, isn’t it?” For some reason, her words were a physical blow. A sharp, brutal pang shot through my chest, the bitterness flooding from my mouth straight to my heart. So, that’s all I was to her. Defeated, with nothing left to say, I turned and walked away. 2 For several days, there was nothing but silence from Hayley. Then, tonight, she appeared at my door, a drunken Julian leaning heavily on her. “Julian’s father is being investigated by the Crown’s inquisitors. He needs to lay low at your estate for a few days.” Before I could even think of refusing, she had already guided him into a guest chamber. And then, the Princess of the realm became a common servant. She bustled about, tending to him with a frantic energy. She brewed a sobering tonic, sponged his face and chest, and even helped him out of his shirt and into a fresh linen one. I remembered last year. To prove myself worthy of a princess, I’d spent my nights at banquets with corrupt officials, gathering evidence against them, and had worked myself into a feverish illness. She never once visited, never once asked after me. In fact, she’d mocked me for it. “Look at you, a sickly wreck. And you think you’re worthy of me? What a joke.” As I passed the guest room, I saw her. Julian had pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. Her lips were swollen and red, and on her neck was another fresh, damning mark. She looked up, her eyes meeting mine. She scrambled to her feet, flustered. “Henry, it’s not what you think. Don’t get the wrong idea.” Her reaction told me she was, at least, aware of the shame of her premarital affair. It just didn’t stop her. I gave a cold, detached curl of my lip. “Your Highness, I understand perfectly. I shall take my leave.” I returned to my own chambers without waiting for her reply, but to my surprise, she followed me in. “I know you’re upset. You don’t have to bottle it up. Just say what’s on your mind,” she said, her tone almost reasonable. “But I need you to know that nothing happened between Julian and me. We are innocent.” She said it with such conviction, her words ringing with self-righteousness. I found it utterly laughable. “Innocent?” I finally shot back. “Princess, you and Julian were discovered in the Royal Gardens, your clothes in disarray, by a member of the King’s own council. Is that your definition of innocent?” She froze, her face paling. It took her a long moment to recover. “A bug… a bug fell into my dress. I asked Julian to help me get it out,” she stammered. “We didn’t do anything.” Lies. One after another. In the past, I would have argued, fought her on every point, but it never led anywhere. My silence seemed to convince her she’d won. She summoned a servant, who brought in a long, velvet-lined box. She presented it to me. “Alright, then. I know how much you enjoy your swordsmanship. Consider this an early wedding gift.” I stared at the dueling saber inside the box. I was stunned. She had forgotten. Or perhaps she never knew. Since the day I’d saved her from a fall as a child, my health had been fragile. I had a lingering weakness that made any sort of rigorous martial training impossible. As for a love of swordsmanship… that was Julian’s passion, not mine. He was the brute, the brawler. But of course, she wouldn’t remember my preferences. Her world revolved around Julian. Seeing my hesitation, her patience wore thin. “I promise,” she said, her voice sharp, “if you stop making a fuss, I will marry you. You will be my husband, at least in name.” Her words piqued a morbid curiosity in me. “In name only? What does that mean?” “It means I will not share your bed. And if you try to force me, then I won’t marry you at all.” So, you won’t share my bed, but you’ll share Julian’s. The thought was cold and clear. She was so certain that I would agree to anything, any humiliation, just to have her. “It’s late, Princess. You should leave.” I ignored her protests and moved to close the door. She seemed ready to argue further, but a sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows. A panicked shout came from the guest room. Julian. Her face immediately flooded with worry. “I have to check on Julian. I’ll come back and talk to you after he’s asleep.” She turned and hurried away. Half an hour passed. It wasn’t Hayley who came to my door. It was Julian. He showed no signs of being drunk. Instead, he radiated a smug, post-coital languor. He gave me a lazy, triumphant smirk. “The Princess has fallen asleep in the guest chamber,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “Regarding tonight’s… events. I trust a man of your stature knows how to be discreet, yes?” I looked at him, and to my own surprise, I felt a profound, unnerving calm. It was as if she had finally, truly been excised from my heart. Meeting his gaze, I offered a polite, placid smile. “Of course. You can count on my discretion.” 3 When I returned from my duties at the ministry the next day, I found Hayley in my main hall. She looked momentarily awkward upon seeing me. “I was so tired last night, I ended up just sleeping here.” I just smiled and said nothing. She picked up a bowl of porridge from the table and, with a sudden and startling attentiveness, held a spoonful to my lips. “Here, try this. I woke up at dawn to make it.” What a marvel. The princess, whose hands had never touched a pot or pan in her life, waking at dawn to cook. I took the spoon and tasted it. “It’s quite good.” The words were barely out of my mouth before she snatched the bowl back. A delighted, childlike grin spread across her face. “Wonderful! If a man with a palate as refined as yours approves, then Julian will surely love it!” she chirped, already turning and heading towards his room. Watching her go, so full of giddy excitement, I felt a sudden, hollowing emptiness. It made sense, I suppose. In all our years together, she had never once cooked for me. It was always me catering to her, learning her tastes, preparing her meals, hoping for a crumb of her affection. “Julian, my love, time to wake up and have your breakfast!” Hayley’s sweet, cloying voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned away, heading for my study. I had no desire to witness their saccharine display. By the time I finished my work, Hayley was gone, but Julian remained. He greeted me with that same infuriatingly cheerful grin. “Henry, my friend! Hayley went out to fetch some medicine for me. Come, join me for a meal.” I was hungry, so I didn’t refuse. The moment I sat down, he placed a piece of meat in my bowl. “You know, Henry,” he began, his tone dripping with false sympathy, “I almost admire you. To wear the horns so proudly and still insist on marrying her.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, are you truly that blind, or are you just… pathetic?” This was his favorite tactic: enrage me, make me lose my composure in front of Hayley. But I no longer cared about Hayley. And I certainly had no intention of wasting another moment on a man like him. 4 I rose from the table and went to my study to pack. After my wedding to Vanessa, I was to be dispatched to the Sunstone Coast to serve as the regional governor. It was time to get my affairs in order. But when I opened the cabinet in my study, I found it empty. My mother’s bracelet—the mother-of-pearl heirloom she had given me on her deathbed—was gone. It had been passed down through generations of her family. “When you marry,” she had whispered, her voice thin as paper, “give this to your wife. And bring her to visit my grave, so I can rest in peace.” It was more than just an heirloom. It was the last tangible piece of her I had left. “Looking for this, Henry?” I whipped my head around at the sound of Julian’s voice. There it was, dangling mockingly from his fingers. The mother-of-pearl bracelet. “Give it back,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “That was my mother’s.” He let out a contemptuous snort. “Oh, the late Lady Valerius’s personal effects? How touching.” And then, he simply opened his hand. The bracelet hit the stone floor and shattered into a dozen milky-white fragments. In that instant, a volcanic rage erupted inside me, incinerating all reason. I lunged forward and my fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. As if on cue, Hayley chose that exact moment to walk through the door. She gasped, rushing to Julian’s side, fussing over him, checking him for injuries. Once she was satisfied he was unharmed, she rounded on me, her eyes spitting fire. “Henry! What is wrong with you?! Apologize to Julian this instant!” She didn’t know. She didn’t care to know. She just saw her beloved on the floor and me standing over him. It was always like this. For Julian, she had infinite trust, boundless compassion. For me, the man who had poured out his soul for her, there was only prejudice. “Do you think staying silent will solve anything? Apologize!” she demanded again. Her fury was a physical force, and my own resentment rose to meet it. “He deliberately smashed my mother’s bracelet. Don’t you think he deserved it?” “I gave that thing to Julian,” she retorted icily. “If he smashed it, he smashed it. What’s the problem?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393336”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My father is a fool for love. He only ever loved his childhood sweetheart, never my mother or me. Growing up, I was the ghost in our own home. Bullied by classmates, abused by the staff—my father saw none of it. Or chose not to. Then came my eighteenth birthday. It was also the anniversary of my mother’s death, and for the first time in years, he came home to have dinner with me. After the meal, he slid a document across the table. A severance agreement. “I’ve provided for you for eighteen years,” he said, his voice flat. “My obligation is fulfilled.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just signed my name and walked away to start a new life. Months later, on a different birthday—mine—he found me, holding a strawberry cake. He pleaded, his voice a whisper, “Sophie, please… come home with Dad.” I just shook my head. “No.” … My memories of my father are a hazy blur, distant and cold. When I was four or five, I’d tug on his coat, begging him to pick me up. He never did. Then my mother died. I was hysterical, my world collapsing, but he just had the nanny cover my mouth to stifle the noise. As I got older, he washed his hands of me completely, leaving me to the care of housekeepers and nannies. I missed him, so I’d sneak out to his office, once trailing him all the way to a charming little house in the suburbs. A mother and daughter lived there. My nanny told me, with a cruel little smile, that they were my father’s true family. And I was nothing. He was a phantom at every school play, every parent-teacher conference. To the outside world, I was no different from an orphan. So, when he showed up today to visit my mother’s grave with me, I was stunned. The story I’d always been told was that my mother was just a girl from a small town, working a dead-end job in a hotel. She was uncultured and plain, and I was an accident that trapped her into becoming Mrs. Reed. The marriage, starved of affection, crushed her. She fell into a deep depression after I was born and faded away a few years later. My father only ever showed a flicker of emotion for her on two days: their wedding day and the day she died. Otherwise, she was a stranger to him. His heart, his entire being, belonged to his true love, Sylvia. I’d met Sylvia many times. She was the epitome of grace and intellect, beautiful and poised. In her youth, she was the daughter of a prominent politician, but her world crumbled when he was disgraced in a corruption scandal. My father couldn’t marry her, so he kept her sheltered in his heart, a treasure to be protected at all costs. Sylvia was the moon—a celestial, untouchable beauty. My mother and I? We were weeds, left to the wind and rain. Whether we thrived or withered was of no concern to him. That’s why he knew my mother was sick, just as he later knew the staff tormented me. But he never lifted a finger. I was the product of an accident, a child who never should have carried his blood. My very existence was a constant reminder of his betrayal of Sylvia. The night he presented the severance agreement, we had just finished dinner. Pizza and pasta. It was the favorite of Sylvia’s daughter, Grace. My father, in his distant way, probably assumed all teenage girls loved pizza. I actually hated it. But to make him happy, I ate two-thirds of it, wiping the grease from my mouth and telling him it was delicious. When the papers landed in front of me, I felt like a sewer rat caught stealing scraps, instantly thrown back into my place. “Sophie, you’re eighteen now. You’re an adult,” he said. “I’ve done my duty by you.” He wasn’t wrong. He was rich. Impossibly rich. He hired people to look after me, to drive me to and from school, to prepare my meals and give me an allowance. This was his version of fatherhood for a daughter he didn’t love. For Grace, he filled an entire room with dolls. He was by her side for every holiday, no matter how busy he was. Before she was even fourteen, they had traveled the world together, photos of their trips tucked neatly in his wallet and displayed in his car. That was his version of true love. “I know you must resent me, but you can understand, can’t you?” He sighed, and for the first time, I noticed a few silver strands at his temples. His voice was laced with a strange, self-inflicted sorrow. “I can honestly say I never let you want for anything—food, clothes, a roof over your head.” He paused, his gaze distant. “But Sylvia… she’s stood by me for half her life with no title, no security. I can’t let her live in the shadows any longer. I have to take responsibility. Give her a home. Make it official.” The pen was smooth, the paper crisp. In less than a minute, I had signed both copies. When I handed them to him, his face was a wooden mask. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or just numb. “You should check to make sure everything is in order,” I said. He glanced down at the signatures, then back at me, his expression unreadable. “You’re not going to make any demands?” “In your presence,” I said, my voice steady, “I’ve never had the right to make demands.” The Reed inheritance, the house, the money—I couldn’t touch any of it. The slightest hint of greed from me would have upset his other daughter, Grace. Even without a drop of his blood in her veins, she received a universe of love and affection that I could only dream of. Knowing my place was the only dignity I had left. “Right,” he said, a visible wave of relief washing over him. “Your grandfather left you a considerable trust. That should be more than enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.” I didn’t argue. “I’ll be staying in the school dorms from now on,” I said calmly. “I don’t have much here. I won’t be coming back.” I fished the house key from my pocket and placed it on the table. “I’ll ask the housekeeper to delete my fingerprint from the door lock.” Perhaps my composure unnerved him, because his resolve seemed to soften just a fraction. “You can continue living here if you want. It’s not like I’ll be back.” I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder, rejecting his final, pitying offer. “I have to get back to school, Mr. Reed.” The name slipped out easily. When I was a child, he’d forbidden me from calling him ‘Dad’ in public, always introducing me as the child of a friend. This agreement didn’t change a thing. “I’ll drive you,” he offered, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “It’s a long way from here.” “No, thank you,” I said with a polite, practiced smile. “The subway is convenient. I’m used to it.” In truth, the subway ride was two hours, a miserable commute. But Grace had long since moved into a condo in a top school district near campus, with Sylvia living there to look after her. I’d seen them more than once near the school, a perfect little family. I once followed them to their building, slipping past the strict security guard behind another resident. I sat on a bench across the street for a long time that day, watching the silhouettes move behind the lit window. I painted a picture in my mind where I was one of them, eating dinner together, then watching TV and sharing fruit. In that fantasy, my dad remembered what I liked to eat, called me ‘Soph’ affectionately, and reminded me to wear a coat if it rained. He’d care if my grades were slipping and hire a tutor for me. Then the light went out. The curtains were drawn. And just like that, I was alone again in the world. I had spent my childhood trying to earn his love with a self-destructive desperation. I’d clung to him, begging him not to leave. As I grew older, I’d mimic scenes from movies, getting myself sick or hurt, acting out like a delinquent just to get his attention. I’d tried charming my grandfather, even the nannies, hoping they’d put in a good word for me. But nothing I did ever changed a thing. Only now, in the act of disowning me, did he seem to feel a sliver of guilt. But only a sliver. The next day, I saw his car parked outside the school gates. He was there for Grace. He looked dapper and energized, wearing a handsome tie, not at all like a man in his forties. His face was lit with a smile of pure relief, a smile I’d never seen before. It froze for a split second when he saw me. I started to turn away. My presence was clearly a blight on his newfound happiness. I buried my head and walked against the flow of students, trying to ignore the happy reunions all around me. But Grace wouldn’t let me escape. She ran over and grabbed my arm. “Doesn’t your family ever come to pick you up?” I knew she wanted to see me hurt. I gave her what she wanted, nodding calmly. “I don’t have a family anymore. Not a single person.” My mother was dead. My father had abandoned me. She feigned a gasp of surprise, then, loud enough for everyone to hear, she called out to my biological father. “Dad! Let’s have Sophie eat with us tonight. She’s all alone, the poor thing.” “Poor thing?” my father shot back, his eyes sweeping over me with cold indifference. “She has plenty of money. She won’t miss one meal. Let’s go, Grace. Your mother is waiting.” His reaction didn’t surprise me. It wasn’t the first time. My grandfather once told me that, besides the nurses, my father was the first person to hold me when I was born. The first word I ever spoke was “Dada.” They say blood is thicker than water, but for him, romance was a flood that washed away all kinship. Maybe he had loved me when I was an infant, a helpless creature dependent on him. But as I grew, as I learned to fend for myself, his sense of love and responsibility evaporated. That severance agreement was the inevitable result. “It’s okay, Dad,” Grace pressed, still clinging to his arm. “Sophie is your daughter, too.” “She is not.” He took Grace’s hand, his gaze fixed forward, refusing to even look at me. He completely erased me. “From now on, Grace is my only daughter. Come on, we’ll be late.” As he led her away, Grace glanced back over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out and winking at me. The look was pure provocation, a silent taunt: See? You can be his real daughter, but he’ll still choose me over you. Grace knew exactly how to twist the knife. We’d been in the same class from middle school through high school. She couldn’t stand me, largely because we shared the same father. She was doted on, loved, and raised in a world of sunshine and positivity. She was cheerful and outgoing to everyone but me. With me, she was a viper. For six years, any classmate who dared to befriend me would inevitably become her new best friend. Grace forbade anyone in our class from speaking to me, from acknowledging my existence. I was a ghost. Years later, I learned the word for it: social ostracization. It leaves no physical scars, but the damage to the soul is fatal. But now, I was beyond caring about such petty cruelties. I just had to get through the next three months, and then I would be free of this place, free of this man who was my father in name only. I turned my back and walked away, a lone figure moving against the tide. Behind me, I heard Grace’s sweet, cloying voice. “Dad, what are you looking at?” “Nothing. Let’s go.” After moving out of the mansion, I settled into the dorm. It was small, but clean. The single bed was narrow, but it was truly mine. It was nothing like the house I grew up in—so vast and tall that I felt like a speck of dust inside it. The tiles were cold, the air was silent. I’d often wake up from nightmares into a pitch-black emptiness, so profound that I’d wish for a ghost to keep me company, just to have someone to talk to. But even ghosts have companions. I only had my reflection in the mirror. The dorm lights went out at ten-thirty sharp. As I lay in the dark, my phone buzzed on the pillow. It was an old model, not like Grace’s, which was replaced with every new release. Mine was slow, the memory always full, so it took a moment to open the new message. It was from an unknown number. “Sophie, why didn’t you come back to the house?” The tone was unmistakable. It was my father. It was almost funny. In all my life, I had never had his contact information. I’d once snuck a look at my grandfather’s phone, memorized the number, and, with a trembling heart, called it from a public payphone. I was eight. It was raining outside. Inside the booth, a woman’s voice answered. It was Sylvia. “Hello?” she’d asked. In the background, I could hear my father’s laughter. “Come on, get up here. Time to give my little princess a piggyback ride.” I hung up. The next time I called was after a particularly brutal incident with the nanny. I was crying, desperate, but all my father said was, “Sophie, where did you get my number?” Soon after, he changed it. In my most helpless moments, I would still dial the old, disconnected number and pour my heart out to the silence. But now, he was the one texting me. And I felt nothing. “Yes,” I replied. He seemed displeased. “We may have severed ties, but that’s no reason for you to run away from home.” Run away? Where was I supposed to go? He didn’t want me, yet he wouldn’t let me leave. Did he expect me to stay trapped in that cold, loveless cage for the rest of my life? Where could I possibly go that wouldn’t be an eyesore to him? “Sophie, stop being so dramatic. This won’t do you any good. If you think this will earn my sympathy, you’re being childish.” How novel. My father was actually lecturing me. Where was this paternal concern when the nanny stripped me naked and whipped me with a clothes hanger, while I clawed at the door until my fingertips bled, begging for a piece of bread? Where was it when her boyfriend she brought home almost assaulted me, and afterward, she slapped me across the face, calling me a little whore just like my mother? In those moments of pure agony and despair, I would have given anything for him to show up. Even if it was just to call me a coward. As long as he was there. But he never was. My pleas never reached him. He brought me into this world but refused to raise me, yet he expected me to be as proud and well-adjusted as Grace. My father was a greedy man. “Your sympathy is worthless to me,” I typed, my fingers steady. “And my life is no longer your concern.” After hitting send, I dragged his number into my block list without a second thought. There was no point in staying connected to someone who had already cut me out of his life. After her victory in front of my father, Grace was ecstatic. Her campaign against me, once subtle, became overt and relentless, especially at school. My desk was in the back corner, an island of solitude. No one dared to be my deskmate. From my seat, I had a clear view of Grace’s back, always surrounded by a buzzing swarm of admirers. She held up her wrist, showing off a new bracelet. “Isn’t it beautiful? My dad flew abroad just to buy it for me.” “I know that brand! It’s insanely expensive.” “I’m so jealous. I wish my dad was that generous.” “Grace, your dad is the best.” Since signing the severance agreement, I’d lost all interest in my father’s life. What new clothes or jewelry he bought for Grace meant nothing to me anymore. But Grace still wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t know how her brand-new bracelet ended up in my backpack, but when she stood there, tears streaming down her face, accusing me of being a thief, I almost laughed. She was still so childish. The same tired tricks, year after year. Grace’s tears were all it took for the head teacher to pronounce me guilty. “Sophie, stealing is a serious offense. I have no choice but to call your parents.” I didn’t have parents. My only living parent was standing right next to Grace, listening to the teacher’s account with a grim expression. He was here to defend his daughter. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Sophie not only stole Grace’s bracelet, but she also broke it? Is that correct?” It was phrased as a question, but just like the teacher, he had already reached his verdict. I didn’t answer him. Instead, I turned to face Grace. “Grace, your father is asking you a question. Is that correct?” “I’m asking you!” he thundered, his voice suddenly booming through the quiet office. His composure had finally cracked. Was it because this involved Grace? This man, who had remained a stone-faced statue through my mother’s death and my grandfather’s funeral, was actually showing emotion. So, he wasn’t a robot after all. “Why are you asking me?” I said, turning my gaze back to him. “If Grace claims I stole her bracelet, she should provide proof. When did it go missing? It was on her wrist all day, how could I have possibly taken it?” I stared directly into his eyes, eyes that were so unnervingly similar to my own. When I was little, my mother would trace the shape of my eyes when she missed him, her tears falling onto my cheeks. I had inherited her gentle nature, but life had taught me to be hard. “There are security cameras in the classroom,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “I haven’t been anywhere near her all day. How could I have stolen it? Did I develop telekinesis?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. The lie was so flimsy, so transparent, yet both the teacher and my father had chosen to believe it. At this, the teacher’s expression faltered, but my father’s reason was once again clouded by a single, theatrical sob from Grace.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393335”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

It was the day of the Choosing, when the Order’s apprentices were paired with their Soul-Blades. And just as he had in that other life, Kaelen sent me sprawling with a deliberate trip, snatching Winter’s Grace into his arms before I could recover. That blade was meant for me. It was Winter’s Grace, the most renowned Soul-Blade in the Nine Realms, and its spirit, Grace, was a being of ethereal, chilling beauty. My brothers and sisters in the Order rushed to my side, their voices sharp with reproach. “Kaelen! That blade was a gift for Asher from Archon Valerius, a ward to protect him! What do you think you’re doing, clinging to it like that?” A Soul-Blade and its wielder are meant to empower each other. To bond with a potent sword-spirit is the ultimate dream of any Blademaster. My father, the Grandmaster’s own sworn brother, had been a hero who gave his life for the realm. He was revered, and as his orphaned son, I was showered with sympathy from the elders and looked after by my peers. Kaelen, despite his raw talent, was a new arrival. By rights, he wasn’t even on the list for this Choosing. Let alone for a blade like Winter’s Grace, a treasure Archon Valerius had spent years searching for, entrusted to the Grandmaster to bestow upon me. And now, Kaelen had stolen it. 1 The Grandmaster, my uncle, suppressed his anger, his voice a low growl. “Return the blade to your senior, Kaelen. There will be other Choosings. The Order will find a worthy blade for you. Be patient.” Kaelen’s lip curled in a pout. “But the Order teaches us to respect the will of the Soul-Blades themselves. Asher possesses a Null-Aether. His potential is nonexistent. Wouldn’t leaving such a blade with him be an insult to its power? It would be better with me—” My Null-Aether. A kinder soul might call it a rarity. The truth was, it meant I was a dud, a magical dead end. Everyone avoided the topic to spare my feelings. “Better with you? Don’t be absurd!” The Grandmaster’s patience finally snapped. “You’ll wait for the next Choosing, or you’ll take that one.” He gestured to the corner, where a single, rusted, broken sword lay discarded and alone. Kaelen shot me a defiant look, his grip on Winter’s Grace tightening. As the Grandmaster moved to take the blade by force, Winter’s Grace erupted in a blinding flash of glacial light. The spirit, Grace, materialized—a vision in white, ethereal and cold as a winter wraith, her beauty breathtaking. She positioned herself before Kaelen, a human shield of impossible beauty. Her voice was like the chime of ice. “I acknowledge only Kaelen as my master. If anyone tries to force us apart, I will seal my blade.” For a sword-spirit to seal its blade was to commit a kind of suicide, to extinguish its own power. The greatest blade in the Nine Realms had a pride to match, preferring oblivion to being commanded. The Grandmaster looked at me, his face a mask of embarrassment. A faint smile touched my lips as I walked over and picked up the rusted, broken sword Kaelen had scorned in my last life. “Our Order has always respected the will of the Soul-Blades. Since Winter’s Grace has chosen its master, let it be a gift to Kaelen. A cripple like me can make do with a broken blade.” Grace lifted her chin, a flicker of triumph in her eyes, and took Kaelen’s arm as they departed. My peers stared at me in disbelief. The Grandmaster, thinking I was acting out of spite, tried to reason with me. “Asher, don’t be rash. That thing is scrap metal. Its spirit likely faded to dust centuries ago. It can’t protect you. Please, choose another.” The other apprentices offered me their own newly chosen blades. I refused them all. To possess a Soul-Blade of one’s own was a dream they had all cherished for years. How could I take that from them? One of them muttered angrily, “I don’t know what trick Kaelen used to bewitch that spirit into choosing him.” But I knew. Grace had always wanted Kaelen. 2 My name is Asher. Unlike my father, a righteous man of immense power, I was born with a Null-Aether—a complete inability to channel magic. My father had adored me. “A Null-Aether is the rarest gift of all,” he used to say. “So what if you can’t cast spells? Scarcity creates value, don’t you see? It might just be the heavens’ greatest blessing upon you.” I almost asked him if he’d like the blessing for himself. But my father loved the world more than he loved me. He gave his life to destroy the Lord of the Crimson Maw, the leader of a bloodthirsty death cult, and became a legend. After his death, the elders and my peers doted on me even more, treating me less like their senior and more like a fragile younger brother in need of constant protection. I knew their love was real. And so was their pity. In my last life, it had been the same. My father’s oldest friend, Archon Valerius, found Winter’s Grace for me, hoping its spirit could be my shield. But Grace had no interest in a powerless failure like me. She was drawn to Kaelen, with his prodigious talent and dashing charm. As for me, I was smitten with her. The blade, pure as driven snow, with an edge that shimmered like crystal. The spirit, a vision in white, so transcendent she seemed unreal. She was like the physical embodiment of a Null-Aether—a beautiful, perfect void. What a fool I was. I saw her ethereal form and thought, “Ah, we’re the same… this must be fate.” So, the moment Kaelen’s hand touched her hilt in that previous life, I scrambled to my feet, knocked him flat, and snatched the sword back. Kaelen, determined to be part of the Choosing, was left with no other option but the discarded, broken sword. As the master of Winter’s Grace, I devoted myself to her. I did everything in my power to compensate for the fact that she was bonded to me, unable to join a powerful master in glorious, world-shaking battles. Other spirits would say, “Master, your command is my will.” My spirit would say, “Country bumpkin, I require a bath.” Bonding a sword-spirit is no less expensive than raising a royal griffin, especially one like Grace, the greatest blade in the Nine Realms. She looked down her nose at everything. The celestial herbs other spirits consumed? She wouldn’t touch them. Her bathwater had to be Celestial Dew from the Sky-Peak Sanctuary, her towel, Cloud-spun silk from the Weavers of Iris, and the whetstone for her blade, Adamant ore from the Black-Iron mines. All of it single-use, of course. She had a thing about purity. “This,” she would declare, “is the treatment befitting the finest blade in the Nine Realms.” The cost was astronomical, but the elders, out of love for me, provided for it. Still, they would gently advise, “Asher, while a Blademaster must respect his spirit, remember the distinction between master and servant. Do not spoil her, lest she forget her place.” I was too embarrassed to take their charity, so I would leave payment and flee, leaving their warnings behind me. When my own funds ran out, I took on commissions. My lack of power meant I could only accept the grueling, low-paying, but low-risk jobs no one else wanted. I would return, exhausted and filthy, and Grace would always greet me with a look of disdain before taking the treasures I’d brought for her. Sometimes, when I was alone, I would practice my sword forms. They were empty motions, devoid of any real power, but they brought me joy. They did not, however, bring joy to Grace. One day, I returned from another dirty job, caked in mud but clutching two precious blocks of Adamant ore. I stopped dead. I saw Kaelen in my courtyard, moving with a grace that was breathtaking—a whirlwind of silver and white. And the sword in his hands was Winter’s Grace. Beneath a tree, Grace watched him, a smile of pure adoration on her face that I had never seen before. 3 I never took Winter’s Grace with me on commissions. The work was just dirty and tiring, not dangerous. A simple wooden rod was all I needed. When I confronted them, Kaelen put on his wounded look. “Asher, I… I’ve just never seen such a magnificent blade up close. I couldn’t resist. I’m so sorry…” His feigned remorse immediately soured Grace’s mood. She frowned at me. “You’re his senior. Shouldn’t you be honored to let your junior practice with your blade? I didn’t object, so what right do you have to be upset?” Looking at Kaelen’s pathetic, apologetic face, my own resolve softened. I let it go. Kaelen was overjoyed. To repay my kindness, he offered to personally instruct me in swordsmanship. I thought of how Grace would scowl whenever I practiced, muttering about how clumsy and ugly my forms were. I was too embarrassed to bother the other apprentices, who were always busy. I eagerly accepted. And so, Kaelen came to my courtyard every day, ostensibly to teach me. But he wielded Winter’s Grace, while I was left with a training rod. This was Grace’s demand. “Your movements are an eyesore,” she’d said. “You are not to touch Winter’s Grace with such ineptitude. Not until you’ve learned.” My sword skills barely improved, but the bond between Kaelen and Grace deepened. Even when Kaelen didn’t visit, Grace would take her sword-form and seek him out herself. This continued until the annual Grand Tournament. Kaelen publicly challenged me to a duel. The winner would become the new master of Winter’s Grace. It was only then that I remembered: in all this time, Grace had never agreed to forge a true Bond with me. I hadn’t pushed, believing my devotion would one day win her over. My peers were furious. “Kaelen, you know Asher’s situation! Are you just picking on the weak? This is shameless!” “He’s just trying to steal Asher’s blade! He has no honor.” Kaelen ignored them, holding a standard-issue iron sword. His expression was one of absolute entitlement. “Asher, I don’t want to humiliate you. Grace and I are already one in spirit. Your lack of talent makes you unworthy of her. Surrender now. Let her go.” Rage flared in me. I had cared for her day and night, toiled for her, spent my money on her while my own boots fell apart. And just because I was born without power, I was expected to simply hand over the one precious thing I had? No. I stepped onto the dueling platform. I knew I couldn’t win. But I refused to surrender. Ignoring the Grandmaster’s furious shouts, Kaelen attacked with killing intent. I raised my sword to meet his, but then it happened. Fearing Kaelen might be harmed, Winter’s Grace, my own sword, twisted in my hand, its point aligning perfectly with Kaelen’s blade. Together, they plunged into me. A perfect, four-holed wound, piercing me through and through. She didn’t even glance at me as I collapsed in a pool of my own blood. She rushed to Kaelen’s side, fussing over him, asking if he was hurt. Then, right there in front of my dying eyes, she forged a formal Bond with him. It was then I understood. She had loved him all along. This time, I thought with a vicious clarity, I wish you two vipers a blissful eternity together. Late that night, I stared at the rusted, broken sword on my table and let out my two hundred and forty-fifth sigh. “What a mistake…” The Grandmaster was right. This was just a piece of scrap. It was foolish to hope a spirit still resided within. Looking at the rusted edge, I doubted it could even chop pig feed. But as a man of the blade, I couldn’t bear to see any sword, even a broken one, left in such a state. I brought out the Celestial Dew, the Cloud-spun silk, and the Adamant ore. Without that high-maintenance princess Grace to provide for, I was suddenly quite rich. Under my care, the layers of grime and rust gave way, revealing the sword’s true form. The hilt was a dark crimson, and the blade itself was a deep, fiery red, etched with intricate, swirling patterns. The broken edge was still incredibly sharp; I’d nicked my finger while cleaning it. I made a mental note to get a healing salve from the Fifth Elder tomorrow to avoid infection, and continued my inspection. Unlike the cold, aloof aura of Winter’s Grace, this sword felt… dangerous, but not malevolent. It possessed a wild, bewitching beauty, yet also a sense of immense, ancient power. Even broken, I could glimpse the magnificent weapon it must have once been. The work left me exhausted. My eyelids felt like lead. I flicked the blade lightly with my finger. “You’re actually quite beautiful,” I murmured. “A shame you’re just a corpse… a very pretty corpse. Ugh, I should have just swapped with one of my juniors.” The wave of sleep was too strong to fight. I slumped over the table and fell into a deep slumber. In my dreams, I thought I heard a voice, a strangely pleasant one, whispering. “Of course I’m beautiful. I am the most beautiful thing in the heavens or on the earth. Hiss… that man has some strength, though. Where exactly did he just flick me…?” The next morning, before I could even process whether the voice had been a dream, Kaelen arrived at my door with Grace on his arm. With me out of the picture, they had forged their Bond the previous night. Once a spirit and master are bonded, they share their lives, their fates, their fortunes. It’s not uncommon for a Blademaster and their spirit to become lovers, cultivating their power together. Kaelen held Grace’s hand, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Asher! I’ve been making the rounds, seeing everyone’s new sword-spirits. Such a fascinating collection! Now, let me see yours.” His eyes gleamed with triumph. And why wouldn’t they? What spirit could possibly compare to Winter’s Grace, the finest blade in the Nine Realms? Grace looked at him with doting affection, her tone soft but laced with condescension. “Darling, it’s a rusted, broken sword. Just a piece of scrap metal. How could it possibly have a spirit?” She shot me a contemptuous glance. “A cripple doesn’t deserve a spirit anyway.” Kaelen clapped a hand over his mouth in mock horror. “Oh! I completely forgot! I’m so sorry, Asher. Grace is just so refreshingly blunt. But you’ve always been so carefree, I’m sure you don’t mind, right?” He added, “A broken sword might be useless, but it does match your… laid-back nature, doesn’t it?” He was still bitter about the Grandmaster and the others taking my side yesterday. This was his petty revenge. Carefree? Yes, I was so carefree in my last life that I let you two murdering hypocrites stab me to death. I was about to let loose a string of curses, but someone beat me to it. A voice, sharp and imperious, echoed from within my small house. “What is all this barking so early in the morning? You’re disturbing my rest. Get lost.” 4 Kaelen jumped, startled. Grace immediately stepped in front of him, her face hardening. “Coward! Stop hiding in the shadows! Show yourself and fight!” The bamboo door to my cottage slid open. A woman in a flowing crimson robe emerged, her hair as black as ink, her skin paler than the pear blossoms in my courtyard. A single beauty mark, red as a drop of blood, rested beneath one of her phoenix-like eyes, giving her a devastating, bewitching glamour. She was seated in a wheelchair, which she propelled forward with a slow, deliberate grace. Her gaze was languid, yet it held the profound, chilling indifference of someone who has long sat at the pinnacle of power. Compared to her, Grace looked like a naive, country girl. Grace’s defensive posture relaxed, replaced by a sneer. “Oh. It’s just a cripple.” She failed to notice the look of utter astonishment that flashed in Kaelen’s eyes as he beheld the newcomer. I stared at the woman, at the familiar patterns on her red robe, at the wheelchair beneath her, and a single, resounding thought screamed through my mind: Oh, hell. She stopped directly in front of me. Then, in full view of Kaelen and Grace, she took my hand, lifted it to her lips, and placed a gentle, reverent kiss upon it. “I am the sword-spirit, Ember,” she declared, her voice resonating with devotion. “I pledge my life in service to my master.” So this was what a pledge of loyalty felt like. I’d never experienced it in my last life. And that name… My name is Asher. Her name is Ember… Kaelen finally tore his gaze away from Ember and stated his true purpose for coming. “Asher, you know that Winter’s Grace, as the finest blade in the Nine Realms, cannot be treated like some common sword. I heard your father left you a great many celestial herbs and spirit stones. Since you have no use for them, it would be better if you gave them to me, to care for Grace.” So, he’d discovered how expensive Grace was to maintain, realized his own monthly stipend was a pittance, and come to me to be his sugar daddy? I was baffled. “Grace is your sword-spirit. Why on earth should I pay for her upkeep?” “You can’t look at it that way,” he said, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “The sword was originally a gift for you from Archon Valerius. Therefore, you have a responsibility to ensure she is cared for. If her power wanes from neglect, how would you face the Archon, or honor the memory of his friendship with your father?” He made it sound so logical. Ember turned her gaze on Kaelen and asked suddenly, “Did you lose your front teeth?” Kaelen blinked. “No, why?” “Because every time you open your mouth, nothing but shit comes out.” Ignoring Kaelen’s face, which was rapidly turning a shade of puce, Ember grabbed my hand and began to shake it, her voice taking on a wheedling, coquettish tone. “Master, I need to be taken care of too! And I’m a poor cripple, you know! You formed a Bond with me last night, master. You even… touched me… right there! You have to take responsibility for me!” A Bond? Oh. She meant when I’d cut my finger. But… touched her where? Where was ‘there’? Kaelen’s face was now crimson, whether from anger or shame, I couldn’t tell. He pointed a trembling finger at Ember and spat at me, “Asher, think carefully! A Soul-Blade is not some ordinary weapon. A broken sword can’t be reforged. A crippled spirit is completely useless! Pouring resources into her would be a total waste.” “If you’re willing to give me your inheritance,” he pressed on, “Grace and I could offer you our protection in the future. It’s a very good deal, isn’t it?” So, I would foot the bill for his expensive spirit, and in return, I would receive a crumb of ‘protection’? From the very two people who posed the greatest danger to me in the first place? What a bargain. My face went cold. “Ember is my sword-spirit. How I choose to care for her is my business. Even if she is a cripple, it is my wealth, and I am willing to spend it on her. You needn’t concern yourself.” I fixed him with a hard stare. “As for Grace, I suggest you figure it out yourself, junior.” Thwarted, Kaelen shot a venomous glare at both Ember and me before storming off, dragging a sullen Grace behind him. Despite her claims of needing to be “cared for,” Ember rarely asked me for anything. She did, however, take every opportunity to get handsy, her fingers constantly finding my own, or tracing the muscles of my stomach. At night, she insisted on being held. If I refused, her eyes would well up, and she’d look like a heartbroken bride. “Does my master despise me because I am a cripple? Fine. Then break our Bond now. Throw me into the Forging Furnace and melt me down. Find yourself a pretty, whole little sword-spirit, so I won’t be a burden to you.” Kaelen was right about one thing: a broken Soul-Blade was nearly impossible to reforge. That Ember was even alive was a miracle. The only hope was to find the other half of her blade. But whenever I asked her about it, she would just smile and say she couldn’t remember. I suspected that was a lie, that the memory was a painful one, and I didn’t want to press her. “You don’t despise me for being useless,” I’d say with a sigh. “How could I possibly despise you? Besides, it’s not like any other spirit would have me…” Ember would lean in close, our noses nearly touching, her voice a teasing whisper. “I would have you. So, my master had better work hard… to protect me.” I thought she was joking. But the next morning, she dragged me out of bed at dawn, insisting she would train me. Not just in basic forms, but in the Verdant Nine Stances—the legendary, lost art of our Order, a technique no one had mastered in centuries. I thought she was insane. The founder of our Order had left behind a hundred sword arts, but this one, the legendary Nine Stances, remained an enigma. Faced with my skepticism, Ember’s lazy eyes showed a flash of pride for the first time. “That is because no one else was worthy.” “No one else was worthy, but I, a useless Null-Aether, am?” Ember’s gaze sharpened, and she spoke slowly, her words landing with incredible weight. “The founder of the Verdant Order… was also a Null-Aether.” I was stunned.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393334”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My best friend, Seraphina, knew my secret: I possessed an endless lifespan and a fortune to match. So she found a mystic to design my death, a ritual to cast me into Hell and steal my perfect fate for herself. On the rooftop of a skyscraper, I wept, my voice tearing from my throat. “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you all my money, everything!” I was terrified of dying. Truly terrified. Because my ex-husband, the one who ruled the realm below, had made a promise the day I left him. If he ever saw me again, he would throw me into a cauldron of boiling oil and have me flayed alive. “Seraphina, we’ve known each other for ten years! I’ve always been good to you, please, just let me go…” “I’ll give you everything I have, I swear!” I was on my knees on the gritty concrete of the rooftop, my dignity shattered, nearly smashing my forehead against the ground as I begged. Seraphina laughed, a cold, sharp sound. She used the pointed toe of her stiletto to tilt my chin up. “I don’t just want your money, Kate. I want your endless life, too.” Her smile was predatory. “Aren’t we best friends? What’s yours is mine. If you truly care about me, then you’ll give it all to me.” With that, she shot a look at the man in dark ceremonial robes standing beside her. The mystic understood. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me toward the edge of the parapet. Thirty-three floors. Directly below, where I was destined to land, they had painted a complex ritual array on the pavement. The moment I hit the ground and my body shattered, the ritual would complete. They would get their wish, and I wouldn’t even have the chance to be reincarnated. Seraphina had planned for everything, even ensuring I couldn’t return as a vengeful ghost. She was making sure my destruction was absolute. The wind howled around me, a frigid blast against my tear-streaked face. I struggled, clawing at the concrete, trying to pull myself back. Seraphina’s greed, ignited by the knowledge of my secret, had burned away any last shred of humanity. She rushed forward, and together with the mystic, she kicked me. One final, brutal shove, and I was falling. The rushing air was a deafening roar that blurred my senses. Then, a sickening crack exploded in my ears as my physical form was obliterated on the concrete below. When my consciousness returned, I was a spirit. A soul adrift in the Netherworld. Two minor reapers stood over me, holding soul-forged chains thick as my thumb. The other end of those chains was clamped around my neck. A dense, grey fog swirled around us, but through it, I could hear the clear, sharp sounds of wailing and screams from the path ahead. I’d been here before. This was the entrance to the Gates of Hell. I had my bastard of an ex-husband to thank for the tour. When I’d tried to leave him all those years ago, he’d dragged me here, his eyes burning with fury, trying to scare me into staying. He hadn’t actually thrown me into the pits of torment then, but now, it seemed my time was up. I was about to be erased from existence. I thrashed against the chains, refusing to move. “I was murdered! I’ve done nothing wrong!” My struggling only annoyed them. One of the reapers, a man with a thin, greasy mustache, drew a barbed whip from his belt and struck me with it. The pain was unlike anything physical; it seared through my very essence, and I collapsed, too stunned by the agony to even scream. “Listen, lady,” he sneered, “I don’t care who you were. You’re in our hands now, and that means you’re finished.” But I had to try. Compared to utter annihilation, I had to take the gamble. What if my ex still held a sliver of affection for me? A chance at reincarnation was infinitely better than being wiped from existence. “I know your king,” I stammered, my voice trembling. “I know Hadeon! I need to see him…” The two reapers exchanged a glance. Another lash of the whip cut across my back, and this time, I felt my spiritual form crack. I couldn’t speak. The mustached reaper spat near my head. “You think you have the right to speak the name of our great king? I don’t know how you learned it, but you’d better keep your mouth shut. It’ll save you a lot of pain.” I was powerless, dragged forward like a broken doll. The other reaper, the quieter one, looked nervous. “You don’t think… you don’t think she’s telling the truth, do you? What if we get in trouble?” The mustached one scoffed. “What’s there to be afraid of? The mystic told us this one’s off the books. She’s not in the Ledger of Souls. Some rogue spirit who knows a few tricks, that’s all. It’s not a big deal if she knows the king’s name. Now stop whining. We’re getting paid well for this. Let’s get it done before someone notices.” It all clicked into place. They were on Seraphina’s payroll, bought off by the same mystic. Corrupt reapers, willing to break the laws of the Underworld for a bit of mortal cash. As the towering Gates of Hell loomed out of the fog, a primal fear seized my soul, making it tremble violently. One of the reapers performed a gesture, and the massive gates began to groan open. My heart, or what was left of it, sank into an abyss of despair. Suddenly, a voice cut through the fog, sharp and authoritative. “A new arrival? Has this one been through judgment?” It was Marshal Blackwood! He was one of the king’s highest officials. He knew me! I stared desperately at the imposing figure emerging from the mist. I opened my mouth to shout, “Blackwood—!” Before I could get his name out, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I was yanked aside, hidden in the shadows. I watched in horror as the mustached reaper intercepted the Marshal. I struggled, kicking out in desperation, and earned another sharp blow to my ribs. The reaper pulled out a pack of mortal cigarettes, his voice dripping with false friendliness. “Marshal, sir! What brings you down to the gates today? Have a smoke. Got these from the topside. They’ve got a real kick.” Marshal Blackwood brushed a piece of dust from his formal robes, his expression annoyed. “Cut the crap, rookie. I asked you a question. Has that soul been processed through judgment?” The reaper swallowed nervously. “Y-yes, sir! Of course. We wouldn’t dare break the rules. We know how busy you and the other Marshals are. You should take a break, have a smoke.” Blackwood took the cigarette and lit it, falling silent. The fog was too thick; he couldn’t see my face. This was my only chance. I bit down, hard, on the hand covering my mouth. The reaper yelped in pain and surprise, his grip loosening for a second. That was all I needed. I broke free and sprinted toward Blackwood, but I was tackled from behind, my face slammed into the ground. A heavy boot pressed down on my head, grinding my face into the sulfuric yellow sand. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. The commotion, at least, caught Blackwood’s attention. He took a few steps closer. “What’s going on over there?” The reaper, furious that I had bitten him, pressed down harder, his foot crushing my temple with vindictive force. “Nothing, sir! Just a feisty one. Still struggling, even at death’s door. You know how it is. The ones who end up here are never the good ones. Don’t want to dirty your eyes with this trash.” At that, Blackwood stopped. “Just be careful. These souls are the worst of the worst. We can’t afford any mistakes. Get it inside.” I watched, my hope dying with each step, as he turned and vanished back into the fog. The mustached reaper, after bowing and scraping until Blackwood was gone, stalked back over to me. He kicked me several times for good measure, then unleashed his whip, venting his frustration on my already fractured form. Soon, there wasn’t a single unmarred spot on me. My soul was a tattered, unrecognizable ruin. When he was finished, he crouched down and pinched my chin. “You bitch,” he hissed. “You almost ruined everything. Don’t you worry. Once you’re inside, I’ll take care of you personally.” Like a discarded rag, I was thrown through the gates and into the First Circle of Hell. This circle was the Agony of Thorns. As far as the eye could see, there were countless racks of torture. On each one, a spirit was impaled, pierced by thousands of long, thin needles, like a human pincushion. The souls here were not yet destroyed, so their screams were endless, a constant chorus of agony. I drew a ragged breath, using my last ounce of strength to force out a complete sentence. “I really… know… Hadeon. If he finds out… what you’ve done to me… he won’t let you live…” It was mostly a bluff. Hadeon didn’t care about my life or death. He probably never wanted to see me again. Why else would he have granted me an endless lifespan, condemning me to wander the mortal world alone, ageless and undying? He was terrified I might die and show up in his Underworld, an unwelcome specter from his past. Once inside the gates, the two reapers were no longer worried about me causing a scene. The mustached one patted my cheek, his smile grotesque. “You’ve really got an imagination, don’t you? Been watching too many mortal dramas? You think our king is someone you can just fantasize about?” He slapped my face, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I coughed, and a plume of my own vital essence escaped my lips. My form flickered, growing more transparent. They strapped me to an empty torture rack. The reaper grinned, retrieving a set of the instruments used here: soul-splintering spirit thorns, each one as long as my forearm. “You’d better hold on tight,” he sneered. “There are seventeen more circles of hell waiting for you after this. We’re going to take our time.” He took a single, gleaming thorn and aimed it at my thigh. “No matter how tough you think you are, everyone breaks in here.” The tip pierced my essence, sinking half an inch deep. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my entire being convulsed. A scream tore from me. “Aaargh—!” Just then, a figure came running towards us. “Wait!” The thorn was pulled out. I gasped for breath, forcing my eyes open to see who it was. It was the warden of this circle. I remembered his name: Wyler. When Hadeon had been trying to scare me all those years ago, Wyler had been the one to plead on my behalf. “My King, the little lady is just young and foolish. There’s no need for such anger. You wouldn’t want to harm her.” Hope flared in my chest. I prayed that after all this time, he would still remember me. “Warden Wyler… it’s me… help me…” My voice was a raw, unrecognizable croak after all the torment. But I was sure he heard me. His eyes were fixed on me, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition, and finally, to stark terror. He knew who I was. But before I could even feel relief, he wrenched his gaze away, his face becoming a mask of indifference. “A message just came from the top,” he announced to the reapers. “They want to witness this one’s final destruction personally. They’re on their way. You’ll have to wait.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393333”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In my last life, my best friend Jenna bought me a stack of scratch-off lottery tickets for my birthday. When I scratched the first one, my childhood sweetheart, the man I was about to marry, died. When I scratched the second, my adoring younger brother became Jenna’s loyal puppy, utterly devoted to her. When I scratched the third, my relationship with my parents shattered, and Jenna became the precious daughter they couldn’t bear to be without. By the time I was beaten to death by muggers on the streets of a foreign city, she had completely taken over my life, my family, my fortune—everything. She was living my happily ever after. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back at the exact moment Jenna handed me those cursed scratch-offs. … “Claire, are you ready yet? I’m right outside your building. When are we heading out for your birthday party?” Jenna’s voice crackled through the phone, and the cold reality hit me: I had been reborn. In my previous life, she’d insisted on throwing me a massive birthday bash. The stack of scratch-offs was her “gift.” But the moment I scraped the silver foil off the first ticket, my world collapsed. I got the call that my fiancé, Jim, was dead. I’d rushed to the hospital in a daze, but I was too late. I never even got to see him. His parents, in a strange and grief-stricken hurry, had already had him cremated. I was drowning in sorrow, but Jenna was there, pushing another ticket into my hand. “Scratch another one,” she’d urged, “it’ll cheer you up.” Like a fool, I listened. I scratched the second ticket. And just like that, my little brother, Leon—ten years my junior and always my shadow—announced he was in love with Jenna and wanted to marry her. Before I could even process his betrayal, Jenna made me scratch the third ticket. That was the final blow. My parents decided to formally adopt Jenna, making her their legal daughter, while they shipped me off to Europe with just the clothes on my back, leaving me to fend for myself. It all happened so fast I couldn’t even scream. One moment I was the heiress to my family’s fortune, the next I was destitute on a foreign street. A group of vagrants targeted me, stole what little I had, and beat me until my heart stopped. Meanwhile, Jenna slipped seamlessly into my life. She became the apple of my parents’ eye, she and Leon lived in blissful romance, and she ascended to the pinnacle of a life that was supposed to have been mine. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand how my perfect world had been so thoroughly dismantled, while Jenna, who came from nothing, had everything fall into her lap so perfectly. Now, hearing her voice on the phone was like listening to a death knell. She spoke again, her voice syrupy sweet. “Claire? You’re not saying anything. I’m already at your front door. Why don’t you just buzz me in?” Her words snapped me out of my trance. Whatever dark magic she’d used to steal my life, I knew one thing for certain: I had to get away from her. Now. I forced a lie through my lips, my voice trembling slightly. “Oh, sorry, Jenna. I’m not home.” “Not home?” Through the video doorbell, I saw her eyes narrow with suspicion as they flickered to my signature pink Porsche Panamera parked in the driveway. “That’s weird. Your car is right here.” Her tone shifted, becoming playful and cajoling. “Oh, I get it. You’re still in bed and don’t want to see anyone, right? Come on, it’s me! Just let me in, I’ll wait in the living room. It’s boiling out here, I’m practically melting…” She was insistent. At the same time, I heard my mom, drawn by the doorbell, heading for the door. I lunged forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her just in time. “Jenna, seriously, we’re not home,” I said into my phone, my voice firm. “My parents aren’t here either. The whole family went on a little road trip to the next state over.” I improvised, desperate. “Look, I’ll wire you some cash. Go hang out at the mall nearby for a bit.” Without waiting for a reply, I sent a thousand dollars to her account. Jenna was about to argue, but the notification of the transfer popped up on her screen. Her face instantly changed. “Oh, wow, thanks, Claire! Okay, I’ll just go to the mall closest to your place and wait for you. By the way, what time will you be back?” She was prying, trying to pin me down, but I wasn’t giving her anything else. “Gotta go, I get carsick,” I mumbled, hanging up before she could ask more. The second the call ended, the mask on the video feed dropped. Jenna’s sweet smile curdled into a look of pure, venomous disgust, laced with a familiar, burning jealousy. A chill snaked down my spine. The thought that I had once called this monster my best friend made me physically ill. But I was back. And this time, I still had a chance to fix everything. I sprinted back to my bedroom and started throwing things into a suitcase. My mom, utterly bewildered, followed me in. “Claire, honey, what are you doing? I thought you were going out with your friends for your birthday.” “I’m canceling the party, Mom. I have to go away for a while. And you and Dad need to leave, too.” “And Leon,” I added, my mind racing. “Book him a flight to Europe. He’s always wanted to see the World Cup, right? I’ll pay for his tickets.” I was a whirlwind of activity, booking flights and arranging transport before my mom could even form a question. She opened her mouth to protest, but I had already packed her a bag and was ushering her to the front door. “I’ve already called a car for you, Mom. It’ll pick you up and then get Dad from the office.” I sent a quick text to Leon. “I’ve let Leon know. Have a wonderful time in Europe, and call me when you land, okay?” I watched until the car carrying my mother disappeared down the street, but the knot of tension in my chest didn’t loosen. Mom, Dad, and Leon were safe, for now. If I was lucky, Jenna wouldn’t be able to get her claws into them. That left one person. My fiancé. Jim. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I dialed his number. “Claire! I was just about to call you,” his warm, familiar voice filled my ear. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? I’ve chartered a yacht. We can invite all your friends and have a real celebration.” Hearing him, so alive and happy, a sob caught in my throat, and I almost broke down right there. In my last life, this was how it happened. He’d gone to the yacht alone to set up a surprise fireworks display for me. That’s when the “accident” occurred. I never even saw him one last time before his greedy, degenerate brother rushed his body to the crematorium to get his hands on the inheritance. The next time I saw the love of my life, he was a jar of ash. Hearing his voice again, I could barely control the storm of emotions inside me, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Jim,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears, “can we put the party on hold? Can I… can I just see you? Right now?” He immediately picked up on the distress in my voice. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “Meet me at our usual spot? The coffee shop. I’ll be waiting.” I rushed out of the house, too paranoid to take my own car, terrified that Jenna might be watching. I hailed a cab instead. When I arrived, Jim was already there, a concerned look on his face. The moment I saw him, the tears I’d been holding back finally broke free, streaming down my cheeks. He was startled, fumbling to wipe them away with his thumb. “Claire, what is it? What’s wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” “No, Jim, no,” I choked out, grabbing his hand. “I’m just… I’m so happy to see you. Let’s go inside.” I wiped my face and pulled him toward the most secluded corner booth in the cafe. The warmth of his hand in mine was the only thing that felt real, the only proof I needed that he was still alive, still here. Looking at his face, so full of love and concern for me, I swore an oath to myself. This time, I would protect him, no matter what it took. Clutching his hand, I pleaded, “Jim, please, can we just cancel the party tonight?” “Cancel it? Why?” he asked, confused. “You were the one who said you wanted to do something big, since it’s your last birthday before we get married. I pulled a lot of strings to get the best yacht in the harbor…” “I just… I don’t want to anymore,” I said, knowing how weak it sounded. My flimsy excuse wasn’t enough to convince him. Left with no other choice, I had to tell him the unbelievable truth. “Jim, whether you believe me or not, I know that you’ll die because of this party tonight. You are too important to me. I can’t lose you.” My voice was nearly a sob, choked with fear, but he just saw it as pre-wedding jitters. He squeezed my hand reassuringly, his smile gentle. “Claire, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress with the wedding planning. That’s why I wanted to do something special for you. It’s going to be fine, I promise. Just relax and let me take care of everything.” Seeing that he wouldn’t believe me, that he was walking straight into the same trap, I took a ragged breath, my heart pounding with desperation. I had to make him understand. “You’ve arranged a fireworks show on the yacht, haven’t you?” He looked surprised. “Ninety-nine shells in total,” I continued, my voice gaining momentum. “One of them is a custom design, one you made yourself. You call it the ‘Lover’s Gift.’ It’s all in shades of blue, and at the end, it’s supposed to explode into the shape of a giant, shimmering rose-cut diamond ring.” Jim’s jaw dropped. “Did my assistant tell you?” he stammered. “No, that’s impossible. I haven’t shown the design schematics to anyone. How… how could you possibly know that?” Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I gripped his hand tighter. “Jim, nobody told me! Please, just trust me. Let’s not do the party. Let’s just go somewhere else, you and me. We can just be together, quietly, until the night is over. Please?” The raw terror on my face must have gotten through to him, because for a moment, I saw his resolve waver. He was about to nod, about to agree, when a sickly sweet voice cut through the air. “Claire! So you were already here! Why didn’t you tell me?” Jenna. She was standing over our table, a triumphant glint in her eyes as she took in the scene. “Here,” she said, pushing a familiar object into my hands. “This is your birthday present. May you have a lifetime of luck.” It was a stack of scratch-off tickets. My body went rigid. The horrifying memories of my past life flooded my mind, vivid and suffocating. In a single, convulsive movement, I swept my arm across the table, knocking the tickets to the floor. Everyone in the near vicinity froze, startled by my sudden outburst. Jim bent down to pick them up, but a strangled scream tore from my throat. “DON’T TOUCH THEM!” He stopped, his hand hovering in mid-air. With a feigned gasp of clumsiness, I “accidentally” knocked my full cup of coffee over, sending the dark liquid cascading off the table and all over the scattered tickets on the floor. They were ruined. Soaked through. A wave of profound relief washed over me. “Oh, Jenna, I’m so sorry,” I said, forcing a tone of sincere apology. “I’m such a klutz today. I’ll get someone to clean this up right away.” A moment later, the soggy, useless paper was swept into a garbage can. I saw the flash of bitter disappointment in Jenna’s eyes. I thought it was over. I grabbed Jim’s hand, ready to flee, but Jenna’s fingers clamped around my arm. “Claire, I can’t believe my special gift for you ended up in the trash like that.” Her voice was tight. “Anyway, I bet Jim has a big surprise planned for you tonight, right? Why don’t we all head over to the yacht he rented?” She gestured to a large shopping bag at her feet. “I even brought you an evening gown. It’s gorgeous!” She held the bag out to me. Inside, there was indeed a beautiful dress. Even though this detail was new, not part of my memories from the last life, my entire being recoiled from anything she offered. “That’s okay,” I said, pushing the bag away. “The party’s canceled. I won’t need it.” I tried to pull away, to leave this nightmare, but she held on tight, refusing to let me go. Every excuse I made, she batted away with a saccharine-sweet counter-argument. Finally, her voice took on a sharp, accusatory edge. “Claire, you’ve been avoiding me ever since I called you this morning. I took three days off work just to come celebrate with you. Or is it that you… you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Of course I don’t, I wanted to scream. The memory of what she did to me made me want to tear her limb from limb. But I couldn’t say that. Not here. Not now. Thankfully, Jim saw the corner I was in and stepped in smoothly. “You’ve misunderstood,” he said, his tone calm and firm. “I’m not feeling well. Claire was just about to take me to the hospital, so we had to cancel the party.” He glanced at his watch. “Our appointment is in a few minutes. If you’ll excuse us.” He guided me out of the coffee shop with a steady hand on my back. I saw a flash of pure hatred in Jenna’s eyes, but I didn’t care. I had escaped her, and I had escaped those cursed scratch-offs. We were standing on the street corner. I turned to thank him, to explain, but the words never came. Out of nowhere, a massive truck came barreling towards us, its horn blaring. I didn’t even have time to scream before Jim shoved me hard, pushing me out of its path. Then, the sickening crunch of metal against flesh. His body was thrown through the air like a rag doll. He landed in a crumpled heap on the asphalt. He lay in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. The truck, realizing what it had done, screeched to a halt before speeding away. In the fading evening light, I saw the words stenciled on its side: FLAMMABLE – KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE. It was a fireworks truck.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393332”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After my sister killed herself, she left a final note. Everyone who read that note died. First, it was my grandmother. Then my father. Finally, my mother leaped from the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper. Reporters scrambled over each other to interview me. The police interrogated me through the night. Countless people wanted to know what that final note said. I remained silent. Until the tenth anniversary of my sister’s death, when I saw a figure standing before her gravestone. In that moment, a thrill shot through me. I knew my time had come, too. … My sister, Lily, died the day before school started. She jumped from the sixteenth floor of our apartment building. Her head was twisted to one side. There wasn’t much blood, her small body just curled in a dark pool on the pavement. But the truly unsettling thing was the expression on her face. She was smiling. A collective gasp went through the crowd as they saw it. On her young face, that smile was tinged with a strange, venomous cruelty that didn’t belong to a child. It made the hair on your arms stand up. My mother’s cries were ragged, broken. My father, a man who had stood straight and tall his entire life, seemed to collapse into himself, lighting one cigarette after another in silence. The police officers offered their condolences while going through the motions. “If there’s a suicide note, we can close the case.” So we searched Lily’s room. Grandma was the one who found it. The note contained a single sentence. She held up the piece of paper, her face a mask of pure shock. Then, she let out a shattered cry. “Oh, my sweet girl…” Her reaction left us stunned. My father took a step forward. “Mom, what does it say? What were Lily’s last words?” Grandma gave us one long, deep look, then decisively threw the paper to the floor. Before anyone could react, she wrenched open the window, climbed onto the sill, and jumped. A fresh bloom of red spread on the concrete below. Grandma’s body lay next to Lily’s. And on her face, too, the corners of her mouth were turned slightly upward in a smile. After Grandma’s death, my father, trembling, picked up the note. As he read it, the color drained from his face. He clutched the paper to his chest, refusing to let anyone else see it. No matter how much the police pressed him, he said nothing. After the funeral for my sister and grandmother, we returned home, exhausted to the bone. My mother, her eyes swollen and red, finally broke. “What did Lily’s note say? Why did your mother kill herself after reading it?” Dad was silent, finishing his last cigarette. He looked as if he had aged decades in a few days. “Don’t ask again. From now on, we act as if it never happened.” His voice was gravel. “And no one is to mention Lily’s name ever again.” Mom’s tears were all cried out. Her voice was a raw rasp. “Lily was my daughter, too! Don’t I have the right to know her last words? David, if you do this, Lily will hate you for it!” I thought my father was being cruel, too. “Dad, we’re her family. We have a right to know what she said. And Grandma… why would she just look at a note and—” He cut me off with a raw violence that startled me. He slammed his fist against the wall, his eyes bloodshot. “I told you, the note said nothing important! You don’t need to know!” When he mentioned his mother, his voice choked. The grief was there, raw and real. But then, as if remembering something, he shut his eyes tightly. “Your grandmother… she was old. Confused. Maybe with Lily gone, she just didn’t want to live anymore.” “That’s enough,” he said, his tone final. “We are not talking about this again. The matter is closed.” He retreated to his room, refusing to utter another word about my sister. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that note. I had to know what Lily’s last words were. My mother felt the same. Three days later, my father drank himself into a stupor and passed out on his bed. Seizing the opportunity, Mom searched his pockets and found the folded piece of paper. She opened it with trembling, eager hands. And then she froze. I watched her expression shift dramatically, a storm of emotions passing over her face. “Mom, what is it? What did Lily say?” I asked, my own heart pounding with anxiety. She didn’t answer. She just stood there, staring at the paper as if she’d seen a ghost. I couldn’t stand the suspense. I moved to snatch the note from her hands, but her reaction shocked me even more. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She looked at me, her gaze vacant, filled with a bottomless despair. Then, she crumpled the note into a tight ball and stuffed it into her mouth. “Mom, what are you doing? Spit it out!” I screamed, grabbing her arm. “Don’t swallow it!” But it was too late. She swallowed. She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Claire,” she whispered, “you must never, ever know what this sentence says.” I stood there, paralyzed, unable to comprehend the demonic power held in that single sentence. Why did it make everyone act so strangely? Grandma had read it and immediately taken her own life. Just then, my father sat up in bed. He had been awake the whole time, watching us from the shadows. He let out a long, weary sigh, and then a strange, broken laugh. He looked at my mother, his eyes dark and hollow. “Laura,” he said. “Now you’re living in hell with me.” My world was spinning. I couldn’t understand how everything had fallen apart so quickly. A month ago, I had a happy, perfect family. During the summer break, Lily and I would lounge around the house, watching movies, playing games, reading comics together. My parents were not only in love with each other, but they adored us. In twenty years of marriage, they’d never had a major fight. Grandma, though old, was the kindest, most loving woman I knew, always sneaking us candy and pocket money. Just last night, she was talking about making us her special pot roast. In just a few days, everything was gone. My sister was dead. My grandmother was dead. My father had become a drunk, and my mother was now a stranger to me. My world had collapsed. And in the ruins, one question echoed: What was written on that note? The next day, the police came back. My parents were gone, so I was the one who had to speak with them. “Did your sister show any signs of depression recently?” the lead detective asked. “Bad grades, a fight with you or your parents, a breakup?” I wracked my brain but shook my head. Lily was a genius, always top of her class. She was sweet and obedient; my parents doted on her. A breakup was out of the question. She was only in seventh grade. The police were stumped. “What about your grandmother? Did she ever express suicidal thoughts? She saw the note and jumped immediately. What did that note say?” At the mention of Grandma, tears burst from my eyes. Lily’s death was a tragedy, but Grandma’s… that was a trauma seared into my memory. I had watched her fall. I was sobbing too hard to speak. The officers, seeing my state, ended the interview. They closed the case, officially ruling Lily’s death a suicide due to academic pressure. They had only just left when they came rushing back. The detective, a man named Miller, looked at me, his expression grim. He struggled to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Claire… try to stay strong.” “We just got a call. Your father, David… he… he jumped from the bridge into the river.” My blood ran cold. My body began to shake uncontrollably. They took me to the riverbank. It was cordoned off with white police tape. The onlookers watched as I was escorted through, their whispers following me like ghosts. “That must be the daughter. She looks just like him.” “What could be so bad that you’d leave your own child behind?” “I heard his other daughter killed herself. He probably couldn’t take it.” “But he had another one, right? How could he just abandon her?” Their words were like daggers. I couldn’t believe it. My father, who was terrified of water, had chosen to drown himself. Detective Miller put a hand on my shoulder and showed me a video on his phone, taken by a bystander. I saw my father park his car, get out, and sprint to the railing of the bridge. Without a moment’s hesitation, he vaulted over it. The churning river swallowed him in an instant. He didn’t know how to swim. He was terrified of water. There was no chance of survival. I covered my mouth, a strangled sob escaping my lips. In a few short days, I had lost my sister, my grandmother, and now my father. I collapsed onto the ground, my world shattering into a million pieces. Detective Miller knelt beside me, his face stern. “Claire, I know this is hard, but you have to pull yourself together. Right now, your sister’s note is the key to all of this. You have to tell us what it said.” I was on the verge of a complete breakdown. I clutched my head and screamed. “I don’t know! I really don’t know!” If I could, I would have given anything to know. Just then, my mother arrived. She took in the scene, the police, the river, and accepted the news of my father’s death with a terrifying, serene calm. She stood at the river’s edge and answered the detective’s question.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393331”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 Nine months pregnant, and the woman my husband, Cameron, had always idealized slipped me an abortion pill. The contractions tore through me, a searing agony, but he told me to just hold on. Because she—Sara—was supposedly in labor, too. To keep me from “stealing her thunder,” he had his housekeeper tie me upside down to a large cat tree in the corner of the room. “I heard that if the blood rushes to your head, it can delay labor,” he said, his voice cold and distant. “Even if you are about to give birth, you will wait. Sera’s child must be born first. I promised her our family would recognize her baby as the firstborn heir.” The drug-induced cramps were a vicious, twisting fire in my gut. I tumbled from the cat tree, landing in a heap on the floor, and crawled toward him, begging him to take me to a hospital. He drove his foot into my stomach. “Sara is the kindest person I know. She would never drug you,” he spat, his face a mask of fury. “But you, you venomous bitch, I bet you’re the one who slipped something into her food to make her go into premature labor!” His voice dripped with contempt. “You’re this far along anyway. What difference could a little pill possibly make?” Later, after he had seen Sara settled and comfortable in her private hospital suite, he called home. He asked his assistant if I was still “throwing a tantrum.” The assistant’s voice trembled. “Sir… Mrs. Thorne and the baby… they’re in the morgue.” The combination of the induced labor and the constant, throbbing pain of the contractions was overwhelming. My head swam from the lack of oxygen, the world turning grey at the edges as I dangled upside down. Bitter fluid rose in my throat, and with a wretched gasp, I fell, bringing the entire cat tree crashing down with me. I tried to curl around my belly, to shield our child, but a warm gush of liquid soaked through my clothes and pooled on the floor beneath me. My water had broken. I could feel the baby struggling inside me, a desperate, frantic push to be born. “Martha!” I screamed, my voice raw. “Martha, please, get me to a hospital! I’m not going to make it!” The housekeeper, Martha, strolled over, casually cracking sunflower seeds between her teeth. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the mess on the floor. “Honestly, what’s all this drama for?” she sneered. “Mr. Thorne isn’t even here to see it. You could die on this floor right now and no one would care. He put me here to watch you, you know. To stop you from constantly competing with Miss Sera. You should really learn your place.” She pinched her nose, grabbed me by the arms, and began to haul me back into an inverted position against the frame. A sudden, terrifying surge of blood flowed from between my legs. She slapped me hard across the face, then pulled out her phone. Cameron, having just finished arranging a team of specialists for Sara, answered with an impatient bark. “Give birth? Don’t be ridiculous. If her baby comes out before Sera’s, you can forget about your salary this year.” Martha shot me a triumphant smirk. As if to twist the knife, she added, “But Sir, she’s bleeding.” I collapsed again, and the pained groan that escaped my lips must have given Cameron a moment’s pause. “Alright, let her down for now. I’ll…” He was cut off by a sweet, delicate voice in the background. “Cameron, darling, the pain is gone. I don’t think I’m going to have the baby just yet.” It was Sara. “You know how it is with pregnancy, especially in the last month. You always think it’s time. A little bleeding is perfectly normal. Didn’t the doctor just say I probably have a while longer?” We were both nine months along, our due dates just days apart. Neither of us should have been in labor. But she had drugged me. She was the reason for these violent, premature contractions. Cameron, of course, believed her lies. His voice turned to ice once more. “Hospital? Forget it. You watch her. No one is to help her until I get back. She’s always trying to one-up Sera, even down to who gives birth first. It’s pathetic.” He hung up. Martha looked at me, her eyes glinting with malicious glee. “See? I told you. The master only has eyes for Miss Sera. He couldn’t care less if you live or die.” She glanced at her phone, a cruel smile spreading across her face. “Oh, and Miss Sera was so thoughtful. She was worried you’d be lonely, so she sent over her favorite pet to keep you company.” She held up a small, ventilated box. Inside, perched on a piece of bark, was a gleaming black spider with a blood-red hourglass on its abdomen. A black widow. 2 I watched in horror as the enormous spider crawled out of the box. Before I could even beg, Martha had bolted from the room, slamming the door behind her. Drawn by the metallic scent of blood, the spider scuttled toward me. I tried to scramble away, but my limbs were still tangled with the ropes binding me to the cat tree, and the agony in my belly was paralyzing. It crawled onto my calf, its tiny legs a million needles against my skin. A wave of revulsion washed over me. Forgetting the pain, forgetting everything but a primal need to survive, I tried to crush it. It seemed to sense my intent. In a flash, it leaped from my leg onto my swollen belly. A searing, venomous pain, like a hundred burning needles, plunged into me. A single, piercing scream was torn from my throat, and then… nothing. My strength was gone. My eyelids grew heavy. Through the darkening haze, I thought I saw Death himself, beckoning to me with a skeletal hand. Then, the door burst open and Martha reappeared, muttering curses under her breath. Seeing me motionless on the floor, a flicker of panic crossed her face. She shook me violently. “Hey! Hey!” The jolt brought me back. With the last ounce of my strength, I gasped, “The spider… it bit me. The baby will die.” Her grip on my hair loosened, only for her to slam my face against the floorboards. “You really are a pathological liar! I almost thought you were actually dead!” As I stared up at her, my vision blurring, her expression shifted from fear to a kind of ecstatic cruelty. “You shameless whore. You knew Mr. Thorne loved Miss Sera, but you still tried to trap him with a baby. I’ve been sick of watching you for months! Look at the disgusting state of you. No man would ever want to touch you!” After her tirade, she remembered the spider. “Where is Miss Sera’s precious pet? Hand it over, now!” She searched the room, but kept a careful distance from me. Her eyes landed on a dark, thick clot of blood on the floor, and she mistook it for the spider’s crushed body. Her face contorted with rage. She kicked me, hard, right in the stomach. “You have a death wish, you stupid bitch! You killed Miss Sera’s favorite pet! How can you be so toxic?” she shrieked. “No wonder Mr. Thorne hates you! You can stay here and rot. Keep her pet company in hell!” She made a quick phone call, her voice sycophantic, full of “yes, ma’am” and “of course.” Before leaving, she walked over to the thermostat and cranked the air conditioning down to its lowest setting. “A final instruction from Miss Sera,” she said with a chilling smile. “Her pet prefers a cold, damp environment. You two can enjoy it together.” The cold seeped into my bones. Shivering uncontrollably, I felt my consciousness slipping away into the black tide of pain. In the distance, I thought I heard a baby crying. My hands were bound so tightly I couldn’t even dream of holding him. It was Cameron who had insisted we keep the child, the product of a drunken, reckless night. He had once pressed his ear to my belly, his face filled with wonder as he felt the baby’s heartbeat. How had our dream of a family of three ended like this? Oh, my sweet baby, I thought, a final tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek. In your next life, find a family that will love you. Don’t follow a mother like me into so much suffering. My own heartbeat was slowing, fading into a dull, distant drum. But then, the door creaked open again. The man who entered gasped when he saw me lying in a pool of blood and filth. I summoned a faint, desperate sound—a plea for help. He flinched back, his face pale with alarm. “I… I’m just a delivery guy. Mr. Thorne sent me to watch a… a Ms. Elara cook for his wife… Please don’t make this difficult for me.” My numb heart clenched with a fresh wave of pain. My husband didn’t believe I was in labor, and instead sent a stranger to make sure his dying wife cooked a meal for his mistress, the one surrounded by a legion of doctors. Even our very identities had been swapped in the eyes of the world. The bitter irony threatened to choke me. “I am Elara,” I whispered, my voice barely a thread of sound. “Please… take me to a hospital.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with terror and indecision. Finally, he fumbled for his phone. “Mr. Thorne? I’m at your house… but the woman you mentioned, Elara… she’s tied to a cat tree and she’s covered in blood. I think… I think she’s dying. Should I take her to the hospital?” Cameron’s cold laugh crackled through the phone. “She’s quite the actress, isn’t she? She’ll do anything to get out of cooking for Sera.” 3 His voice hardened with conviction. “Don’t you dare take her to a hospital. The housekeeper said she covered herself in chicken blood. You tell her, if she wants my forgiveness, she’ll get up and start cooking right now. Otherwise, I’m not coming home tonight.” The delivery guy tried to argue, but Cameron had already hung up. He knelt beside me, his brow furrowed. He looked from my pale face to the dark, spreading pool of blood. It was clearly not from a chicken. After a moment of intense internal struggle, he began to untie the ropes. “I don’t know what you did to make Mr. Thorne so angry,” he muttered, his hands shaking. “But this is wrong. I can’t just leave a pregnant woman to die.” He called for an ambulance. For a fleeting second, my heart dared to hope. But the paramedic’s words sent a new wave of ice through my veins. “If we don’t get the antivenom into you in the next ten minutes, you’re not going to make it.” The specific antivenom was incredibly rare. Getting it from anywhere else in the country was impossible. But after they entered my information into their system, the paramedic’s face lit up with sudden recognition. “Wait, you’re Mrs. Thorne! Cameron Thorne’s wife? That changes things! His family’s private hospital is sure to have it!” He immediately dialed Cameron’s number. “Mr. Thorne, your wife has been bitten by a black widow spider. Her condition is critical. We know your hospital received a shipment of the specific antivenom from overseas last year. You should still have some in stock, right?” Cameron exploded. “Elara, have you lost your mind? What black widow? The spider Sera has is a harmless species! Not only did you kill her pet, now you’ve hired an accomplice to lie for you?” I tried to shake my head, to scream the truth, but I had no voice left. The hospital had that antivenom because Sara had been bitten by her “harmless” pet once before. Cameron, frantic with worry, had spared no expense to procure it. He just didn’t know that she kept the venomous creature for one purpose: to use it on me. The paramedic tried to reason with him. “Sir, we are real paramedics. Your wife is six centimeters dilated. She’s about to give birth. If she doesn’t get this antivenom within ten minutes, we will lose them both.” “Then let them die!” Cameron snarled. “She’s always crying wolf, threatening to die over every little thing, and she’s still here, isn’t she? She’s just being dramatic. It’s my own child. Don’t you think I’d know when it’s supposed to be born? Stop calling me with this disgusting nonsense!” He hung up. In the background, I could hear Sara’s cloying voice, asking him to go buy her a slice of cake. The paramedic looked at me with pity. “We’ll take you to the Thorne private hospital anyway,” he decided. “The doctors there… they can’t just refuse to treat you.” But I should have known better. To keep Sara happy and her environment “peaceful,” Cameron had given a standing order: the hospital was not to admit any new maternity patients. Our ambulance was stopped at the gates, barred from entry. Through the window, I saw Cameron walking out, a cake box in his hand, talking on his phone. “That’s right. Sera needs quiet. I don’t care who they are or how much they offer, we’re not admitting anyone else.” I lay on the gurney, a fish gasping for air on a dry dock. Our eyes met. His driver, standing by the car, did a double-take. I no longer had the strength to speak, to even move. The driver hurried over to Cameron. “Sir,” he said, pointing toward the ambulance. “That woman they just brought in… I think it’s your wife.” Cameron glanced over. All he saw was a filthy, wretched woman, her face half-hidden by hair matted with blood and grime. He turned away in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. That shrew would never have the nerve to show up here.” “But sir, even if it’s not her,” the driver pleaded carefully, “she’s in a terrible state. Maybe we should just let them in?” Cameron shot the driver a look that could kill. “It sounds like you don’t want your job anymore. Is any woman’s life more important than Sera’s happiness? Even if it is Elara, she deserves it!” His final look was one of utter indifference, as if he were looking at a piece of roadkill. He turned his back on me and spoke tenderly into his phone. “Sera, my love, I got the cake you wanted. I’ll be right up.” The last ember of hope inside me died. Even at the gates of salvation, Cameron was the one to bar the door. But I refused to let this be the end. I wasn’t ready to die. I borrowed the paramedic’s phone and dialed a number I hadn’t dared to call in years. “Uncle Marcus,” I sobbed into the phone, my voice a broken whisper. “I was wrong. I was so wrong. Please… save me and my baby…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “393330”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel