My wife’s boyfriend came to my studio to pick out a design for their baby's nursery. He spent the entire day shooting down my ideas, from morning until the sun began to dip below the city skyline. Finally, his eyes landed on the blueprint I had drawn for my own future child. "This is the one," he said, running a finger over the rendering. "It’s spacious. Perfect for you to slip in and help out." Naomi’s entourage of guy friends watched me, practically begging for me to lose my mind. But I kept my face entirely blank, treating him like any other paying client as I noted down the measurements. "Are you kidding me?" one of them whispered loudly. "He’s letting the husband babysit the side-chick’s kid? How does he stomach this?" Naomi listened to their mock-pity, her face cool and unbothered as she reached over and snatched a black Amex from her friend’s hand. "Cut it out. You lost the bet," she said smoothly. "Pay up. I still need to buy Chase that watch." Then, she looked directly at me. "He has no money, no social standing, and he can’t even give me a child. Do you really think he’s in any position to say no to my people?" She tilted her chin up slightly, ensuring I caught her gaze. "Letting him raise my son is a privilege." I kept my professional smile locked in place. I packed up the design portfolio and handed it to her. She took it, thoroughly satisfied, and gestured for her assistant to settle the bill. "Oh, by the way," she added, almost as an afterthought. "My firstborn needs to be legitimate. Go ahead and file the divorce papers tomorrow. But you can stay in the house as a live-in nanny." I didn't blink. I simply said, "Okay." A second later, the card reader beeped, flashing a red error message: Declined. Insufficient Funds. Under the sudden, suffocating silence of the room, I looked up. Meeting their bewildered stares, I offered a polite, apologetic smile. "If we’re divorcing, Naomi, you’ll need to pay me my share of the marital assets first. According to the prenuptial division, that comes out to exactly three hundred and seventy-seven million, five hundred and eighty thousand dollars." … The air in the room froze instantly. Naomi’s eyes locked onto mine, a storm of dark, unreadable emotions churning in her gaze. Trent let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Honestly, the charity cases always think they’re worth more than they are. Do you honestly think you deserve a single dime of her money?" Naomi’s expression hardened. She took a few steps toward me, her designer stilettos clicking sharply against the polished concrete floor. She stood close enough that I could smell her expensive perfume—the scent of cold wealth. "Jude," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Stop playing these pathetic hard-to-get games with me. I paid for your mother’s funeral. You don’t have the right to ask for a damn thing." I didn't flinch. I kept the same empty, practiced smile on my face. "It’s what you owe me for the last ten years, Naomi. If you don't pay, your son will be nothing but a bastard forever." A vein throbbed violently in her temple. She spun around, scanning the room. "Tear this place apart," she barked. Her bodyguards didn’t hesitate. They lunged forward with metal batons. Within seconds, five years of my life’s work was reduced to absolute ruin. Dozens of physical architectural models—painstakingly assembled by hand—were smashed into kindling. Blueprints and sketches were ripped from the walls and torn into confetti, fluttering through the air like a mock snowstorm. Lamps were shattered. Desks and chairs were splintered in half. The glass doors of my office shattered with a deafening crash. Naomi stood in the center of the wreckage, her breathing shallow as she glared at me. "Did you think these few years of comfort made you my equal? Today, I’m going to make sure you remember exactly where you belong." Her eyes scanned the room and landed on the heavy metal safe in the corner. She grabbed a steel rod from one of the guards and swung it against the lock. Once. Twice. She kept going until her arms trembled with exhaustion and the metal door finally buckled under the force. She kicked it open, swearing under her breath. "Let’s see what precious little secrets you’re hiding in here. Smash it all!" Inside was a single, yellowed blueprint. Years ago, when we were so poor we could barely afford rent, Naomi had looked at this very sketch and promised me that one day, she would build it for us to live in. Her hand went limp. The steel rod slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the debris. One of the guards stepped forward, flicking a lighter to set the paper ablaze. Just as the flame was about to touch the edge, Naomi suddenly kicked him back. "Are you out of your mind? Do you want to burn the whole building down?" While the guard apologized, she quickly shoved the blueprint back into the safe. She signaled the guards to stand down, then picked up the steel rod and forced it into my hands. "If you don’t want your entire life ruined, you’ll cooperate," she said, her grip tightening over mine until my knuckles turned white. "Record a video. Say you were jealous of Chase’s baby because of your infertility, and that you trashed your own studio in a fit of rage." Beneath my feet lay the ruins of my dream project. Naomi had once promised me she’d build a hundred-story tower in the heart of the city—a monument to our love. Now, more than half of her real estate empire was populated by her mistresses and their children. And here she was, standing on the ashes of my career, forcing me to destroy myself to protect her lover. I didn't argue. I simply smiled, raised the rod, and swung it full-force into her shin. "I hope you two trashy bastards deserve each other," I spat. With a sickening crack, Naomi screamed in pain, her phone flying out of her hand. The guards immediately tackled me, pinning my face hard against the cold floor. Trent scooped up the phone, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he aimed it at us. "Well, look at that. Forget a civil settlement—you can send him straight to prison for assault now! What should the headline be? 'CEO Abused by Husband Before Marrying Her Lover'? Or maybe..." "Enough!" Naomi hissed, her face pale with agony. She clutched her leg, leaning heavily on her assistant as they limped toward the exit. "Don’t let him leave this room until I get back." The door shut, leaving me alone with the guards. I dragged myself up, picked up the dented safe, and retreated into my private office. There was a hidden compartment behind the bookshelf containing my passport, ID, and the final, top-secret draft of my international competition entry. I packed them into my coat, then checked the security feed on my laptop to see where the guards were positioned outside my door. As I adjusted the mouse, my hand brushed against something soft hidden in the crevice of my desk chair. I pulled it out—a used condom wrapper. A wave of nausea washed over me. I threw it aside. In doing so, my sleeve caught a wire, and the secondary monitor flickered to life. I must have triggered a hidden playback folder on the local drive. A video popped up on the screen. It was recorded in this very office. Chase was sitting in Naomi’s lap, wearing nothing but an unbuttoned shirt. His voice was dripping with calculated petulance. "Naomi, I hate this studio. I hate feeling like I’m always standing in his shadow." Naomi kissed his forehead softly. "Then I’ll burn it down for you. Or trash it. His entry for the international competition is bound to be exposed in the chaos. When it is, I’ll put your name on it. Think of it as a gift for our baby." "And him?" Chase purred. "He’ll ghostwrite for you," Naomi said, her voice filled with a sickening, tender warmth. "While you shine on stage." My chest felt hollow, cold as ice. Just to the left of the monitor sat our first joint trophy. Ten years ago, the media had called us the golden couple of architecture. At twenty-two, Naomi’s eyes had shone with a brilliant, honest light when she swore she would build every single dream of mine. But six months after she reached the summit, Chase entered her life. I picked up the heavy crystal trophy and hurled it onto the concrete floor. It shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Among the debris, a folded slip of paper fluttered out—the medical report from last week. Early-stage stomach cancer. I let out a quiet, breathless laugh. I slipped my thirty-thousand-dollar wedding band off my finger and tossed it into the trash can alongside the diagnosis. Anything I couldn't carry was left behind. I was discarding ten years of filth. I took one last look at the empty, ruined office. The memories of decorating this space together now felt like a cruel joke. I slipped on my coat, feeling the thick stack of my competition blueprint secured in the inner pocket. I pulled out my phone and checked the digital boarding pass sent by the committee. Before walking out, I pulled up the audio of Chase’s moans from the video file and routed it to the studio’s external speakers. While the guards scrambled in confusion at the sudden blast of sound, I slipped out the back door and ran into the rainy evening. I hailed a cab, tossed a hundred-dollar bill to the driver, and told him to drive. We took a dozen winding turns through the city, successfully throwing off the black SUV that had started tailing us. At the airport, I printed my physical ticket and watched the hands of the clock tick down. Once I landed in London, all of this would be behind me. "Final boarding call for Flight 88 to London," the PA system chimed. I stood up, but before I could take a step, several suit-clad bodyguards blocked my path. "Well, look who it is," Trent said, stepping forward with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a smirk plastered on his face. "Trying to run away, nanny? Naomi is at the hospital with a hairline fracture, and instead of taking care of your wife, you’re trying to sneak off to England?" "Get out of my way," I said, my chest tightening. "You’re coming back with me to apologize," Trent sneered, "or I’ll have the police arrest you for domestic abuse right here." The clock was ticking. I looked around the crowded terminal and screamed at the top of my lungs. "Help! Security! I don’t know this man! He’s threatening me!" Two airport security officers immediately marched toward us. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, a warm, firm hand clamped onto my wrist. Naomi stepped forward, pale but resolute, holding up our marriage certificate. "He’s my husband," she told the officers smoothly. "We’re just having a domestic dispute. He’s offline." The crowd dispersed, losing interest. Naomi glared at me, her eyes burning with quiet fury. "Take him," she commanded. The car stopped in front of the ruined studio again. I was dragged back to my wrecked office. Naomi sat on the leather sofa, her gaze sharp and predatory. "Are you going to give me the blueprints yourself, or do I have my men strip you?" I clutched my coat tightly. "You have no right to steal my work." She scoffed. "We’re still legally married, Jude. Everything you create is marital property." She nodded to the guards. They lunged at me, tearing at my clothes. "Get off of me! Naomi, you’re sick!" I screamed, fighting with everything I had. She watched with cold indifference. "I gave you a chance. You brought this on yourself." With a loud rip, my coat was torn open. The thick roll of draft paper fell to the floor. I had spent a year drafting those pages. I hadn't slept a full night in months. Thousands of discarded sketches had been burned to produce these final, perfect ten pages. Naomi picked them up, inspecting them with a pleased smile. She limped over and patted my cheek. "See? Was that so hard? Now go back home and prepare for the baby’s arrival. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of." The door opened, and Chase entered, leaning on a nurse. He rushed into Naomi’s arms, whimpering. "Naomi, you shouldn't be walking on that leg! I was so worried about you!" Then, his eyes caught the blueprints in her hand. "Is this for me? Oh, Naomi, you’re the best! I love you so much!" A flicker of guilt crossed Naomi’s face, but she quickly masked it, urging him to go home and rest. But Chase was already scanning the pages, pouting. "I think the aesthetic is a bit too rigid. I want to change some of the lines." Naomi immediately sat him down at my drawing table, bringing him my professional drafting pens. She stood beside him, whispering words of encouragement—just like she used to do for me in our damp basement apartment years ago. But Chase had no talent. Within minutes, my precise, elegant lines were butchered. When he reached for the second page, I couldn't take it anymore. I thrashed against the guards holding me. "Stop! Don't touch that! You don't know what you're doing!" Naomi glared at me. "An architectural design should be simple enough for the public to understand. If your design is too complicated, it’s because your work is flawed. You should be grateful Chase is fixing it." In her frustration, she snatched the paper away, but her grip was too heavy. A loud rip echoed through the room. The master draft was torn in half. She froze for a fraction of a second, her fingers hovering over the custom signature stamp I had embossed on the corner. "Oh, look what you did," Chase complained, whining. "Now we have to tape it back together. That's so tedious." Naomi’s face hardened. She crumpled the torn draft and tossed it into the trash can. "It’s just garbage anyway. We don't need it." Something inside my brain snapped. She had once promised to buy me an entire island to celebrate if I won this competition. She had cried seeing how hard I worked. Now, she called it garbage. She turned to her laptop to look for my digital backups. With a surge of adrenaline, I bit the guard's hand, broke free, and threw myself at her. "Get away from my things!" I screamed. I slammed my fist into the laptop screen, cracking the LCD into pitch-black static. Naomi gasped, her eyes turning bloodshot. She grabbed the heavy mechanical keyboard from the desk and swung it at my head. "Are you insane?" I dodged, losing my balance. I fell backward, crashing straight into the pile of shattered crystal from our old trophy. A sharp, agonizing pain pierced my abdomen. I looked down. Crimson blood was rapidly blooming through my shirt. Naomi froze, her gaze falling to my bleeding stomach. Her hand twitched, instinctively reaching out to help me up. As she did, the bloodstained medical report slipped out from under my coat. I had received the diagnosis last week. But she was always with Chase, and I could never find the right moment to tell her. I had planned to get treated after the competition. Now, she saw it. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the paper. Chase quickly stepped in, catching on. Before Naomi could speak, he clutched his own stomach and let out a loud groan. "Oh my god, Naomi, my stomach hurts so bad... I think the stress is getting to the baby!" Naomi’s maternal instinct flared. She immediately let go of my arm and gathered Chase into her embrace. I slumped back onto the floor, the pain in my stomach radiating through my entire body. Looking at my agony, Naomi’s expression curdled back into disgust. "You’ve really stooped to a new low, Jude," she spat. "A fake cancer report? Did you plan this entire fall just to make me feel guilty?" She kicked a pile of broken glass toward me. "Keep faking it. Let’s see how long you can last." Ignoring her injured leg, she lifted Chase and carried him out of the room. "Keep him locked in here," she ordered the guards at the door. "No one helps him without my permission." The elevator doors slid shut, carrying Chase’s smug smile away. The guard outside took my phone, threw it on the floor, and smashed it with his boot before walking down the hall to smoke. We were on the twelfth floor. I couldn't jump. The pain in my stomach was a roaring fire, and hot iron tasted thick in my throat as I coughed up blood. My vision began to dim. But then my hand brushed against my passport and ID inside my inner pocket. No. My new life was waiting for me. I couldn't die in this garbage pile. I bit my tongue hard. The sharp burst of pain cleared the fog in my mind. I had designed this building. Every unit was equipped with an emergency fire pull-station. Dragging my useless lower body across the shattered glass, leaving a thick trail of blood behind me, I crawled toward the red box on the wall. With my final ounce of strength, I pulled the lever. The building’s alarms wailed, a deafening screech that echoed through the halls. I heard shouts outside, people demanding to know what was happening. I reached up and hit the studio's intercom microphone, broadcasting my shallow, ragged breathing to the lobby. The door was kicked open. Dozens of feet rushed toward me. "Hey! Stay with us! Don’t close your eyes!" "Call an ambulance! He’s bleeding out!" I let go, letting the darkness take me. Meanwhile, at the hospital, Naomi received a call from her head guard. Still convinced I was playing games, she snapped: "Are you all useless? You can't even keep watch over one man? Get lost!" She hung up and dialed her assistant, her voice trembling with rage. "Find Jude’s location. Right now." But before she could finish her sentence, the emergency room doors burst open. A team of paramedics rushed a gurney past her. "Get the family on the phone!" a doctor shouted. "Early-stage gastric cancer, severe internal hemorrhaging. We need to operate immediately!" Naomi turned. On the gurney lay my bloodless, pale face.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "522964", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel