The first time I met Victoria “Tori” Leighton, my benefactor, was on the day my mother was dying. The figure on the check she slid across the table could have bought my mother a new life, and mine along with it. “Be my boyfriend for three years, Andy. When the contract ends, the money is yours.” And so, I started wearing the clean, tailored white shirts, copying the style of Dominic “Dom” Keller, her idealized first love—her Original Sin. She treated me extravagantly. I wasn’t a hidden pauper; I was publicly her chosen partner. She purchased rare antiques for me, declared to the press that I would be the sole Mr. Leighton. The whole circle whispered that Tori Leighton, the ruthless CEO, had finally fallen for the scholarship boy she plucked from obscurity. It was an arrangement, a transaction, but I sank into it anyway. I let myself drown in the current of her brazen favoritism, allowing my own fragile love to grow unchecked. Until the month before the contract expired. Dom showed up on the Leighton doorstep, begging for help. He was running from a hit-and-run charge. That night, Tori gave me a new contract. “Andy, serve four years in prison for Dom. I’ll ensure your mother’s comfort and care for the rest of her life.” “And if I refuse?” I asked, my voice a shaky wire. “I will stop all of Helena’s treatment immediately. You have no choice, Andy.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “As compensation, I will still marry you when you get out.” Outside the window, sirens wailed, growing louder and closer. I looked at her, and the tears fell silently. … It was pouring rain on the day I was released. The winter chill of the rain hitting my skin was agonizing; I was still wearing the thin clothes from the summer day I went in three years ago. Four years of torment had stripped me of my youth and ruined the hands I had once been so proud of. Two fingers had been deliberately crushed, now a crooked, ugly mess of scar tissue that never healed right. The heavy iron gate groaned, slowly swinging open. For a stupid, desperate moment, I indulged a flicker of delusion: would she be there to meet me? But outside the gate, there was nothing but muddy ground and the downpour. I had been too greedy. She never loved me. The affection was a stage performance because I was a good enough stand-in. The public displays of devotion were a lie. She pulled me from the abyss, yes, but it was purely transactional, a way for us both to get what we wanted. I told myself that a thousand times, but the betrayal was still a knife twist, and the tears fell anyway. She was a splinter in my heart, and four years hadn’t been enough to dig her out. Wiping my face, I reached for the letter my mother had written me, tucked in my pocket. The paper warmed my heart. A car suddenly swerved, slamming on its brakes in front of me, splashing a sheet of muddy water over my clothes. Tori stepped out, holding a large black umbrella. Just like that day in the hospital, when I was signing my mother’s critical care forms and had nowhere left to turn, she descended like a god. Only then, my heart had hammered with a terrified kind of adoration. Now, looking at her face, there was only a toxic mix of need and loathing. The passenger window slid down. Dom leaned out and smiled at me. “Oh, look at you. Still in those thin summer clothes? Honestly, Tori, did you forget it’s January?” Tori’s gaze swept over me, her tone flat and distant. “He won’t freeze.” Dom’s spoiled, affected drawl—I’d spent years imitating that cadence for her, a thousand times over. Hearing it now, firsthand, gave me whiplash. The memory of all those days, when I was acting as him and reaping all of Tori’s affection, flashed before my eyes. “Sorry, baby had a little fever this morning, so Tori was delayed coming to pick you up…” I heard a child’s giggle from inside the car, and my hand trembled. In the four years I spent behind bars for Dom, they hadn’t just reunited; they’d built a family. I managed a self-deprecating twist of my mouth. She bundled me into the back seat. Her eyes flickered down to my mangled hand, and she stiffened for a single, fleeting second. There was a look of frustration—hard to read—in her eyes. The next second, she pressed a button on the control panel, and the vent in the back seat pumped out a rush of hot air. Then, a packet of tissues was thrown over her shoulder. I thought, for a desperate moment, it was pity, until her cold voice cut through the silence. “Dry yourself off. Don’t ruin Dom’s favorite cashmere seat cushions.” The last fragile piece of hope in my chest was drowned in that bucket of ice water. “Ms. Leighton,” I said, my voice rough. “Just take me to my mother.” She didn’t answer, slamming her foot down on the gas. The silence was thick with unspoken resentment; only the cheerful babbling of a child broke the tension. She used to hold me close and whisper, ‘Andy, let’s have a baby, just you and me.’ How much of her affection had been real? I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I did everything you asked! Why are you still keeping my mother from me?” I leaned forward, desperation sharpening my tone. “What’s next? What other service do you need? Is Dom facing a new felony that needs covering?” Her eyes finally met mine in the rearview mirror—dark and unreadable. Dom chuckled softly, an arrogant, superior sound, watching my desperation. The car sped through the rain, finally pulling up in front of the County Clerk’s Office—the Registry—in a bright, unambiguous stop. “Andy Virgil,” she said, her voice as calm as if discussing the weather. “I’m honoring the promise I made years ago. We’re getting married.” “Come on,” she added. “Let’s get this done.” The twenty-three-year-old version of me would have been ecstatic, joyously linking my arm through hers and running into the office. The thirty-year-old version of me felt only a crushing sense of dread and incomprehension. She hadn’t kept a single one of her other promises—why would this one matter? A fierce sense of instability washed over me. “Has something happened to my mother?” I asked, trembling. She glanced at me, a hint of mockery in her expression. “Have the letters and recordings my lawyer sent you these past few years been insufficient?” No. Just the day before my release, I had received a letter in Mom’s familiar handwriting. Seeing it had calmed my heart. If something had happened to her, I wouldn’t be standing here. I wouldn’t be alive. “Just go inside first,” she said, her voice softening slightly, a fake show of conciliation. “Sign the papers, and I’ll arrange for the best orthopedic surgeon to see your hand. Andy, be good.” It was always like this: she’d slap me, then offer a poisoned sweetener. She knew my only weakness, and she used the cruelest leverage possible. Dom spoke up from the front seat. “The kid needs a legal father on the birth certificate. My status is a little…complicated. Don’t worry,” he sneered, looking back at me. “A woman like Tori? I’d never let her go to a cheap substitute like you.” I clutched the letter in my pocket. I would see Mom soon. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes. I chose compliance once more, following her into the registry. Filling out the forms, signing, taking the picture. I wrote Andy Virgil one deliberate letter at a time. My twenty-three-year-old self had planned this day: a top photographer, cute props, matching designer outfits she’d made herself. Now, there was nothing. The clerk instructed us to sit in front of the backdrop. “Closer, please. And, ma’am, can you hold his hand? You look too distant.” Tori’s brow furrowed. She instinctively reached for my left hand. Her fingertips brushed the raw, empty space where my little finger and ring finger used to be. Her body froze. There was only jagged scar tissue and cold air where warmth should have been. “It’s… not right,” she murmured, pulling her hand back instantly, her face tight. “Let’s just take the picture.” I quickly tucked the ruined hand into my sleeve, a sick, hollow feeling in my chest. Tori’s face was unreadable, a mask of cold displeasure. The flash went off, and I flinched, instinctively closing my eyes. The unwelcome memory of her kissing my hands flooded my mind: “Andy, has anyone ever told you that you were born for the piano?” She said she chose to sponsor me, a boy whose family was bankrupt, only because she didn’t want me to abandon my musical path. Yet she was the one who personally destroyed me, ensuring I would never touch a piano again. Soon, two red marriage certificates were pushed across the counter. I opened mine. The photo was grotesque. She wore a heavy black designer coat; I was in a threadbare, faded T-shirt. Outside, she lit a cigarette, leaning against the car door and watching me. “The title of Mr. Leighton is yours, but let’s be clear.” Her eyes were cold smoke. “Every penny of the Leighton estate is Dom’s. You are a name on paper. A temporary prop. Don’t start thinking you’re above your station.” I gave a bitter, mocking smile. “Don’t worry. I’m completely under your thumb. How could I possibly have high standards?” She paused, unused to my new lack of obedience. “Sharp tongue. Looks like prison didn’t teach you manners.” I ignored the comment, meeting her glare head-on. “Can we go see my mother now?” In the tense standoff, Dom suddenly took off the silver ring on his finger. “For the sake of appearances, wear this. Just in case the old man gets suspicious.” I took the ring woodenly and tried to slide it onto my remaining middle finger. I was so thin, all bone and stretched skin, that the ring, this symbol of what should have been happiness, slid right off. Clink. It rolled onto the dirty floor mat beneath the seat. Tori let out a cold, dismissive laugh. “A man with no luck, can’t even hold on to a wedding band.” She bent down, retrieved it, and grabbed my hand, trying to forcefully push it back on. She tried several times, but it wouldn’t stay on the thin knuckle. Losing patience, she threw the ring onto the passenger seat with an angry hiss. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. Did you not eat in there?” She had infinite power; finding out about my suffering in prison would have been simple. But she had never once asked. Tori took a final drag, crushed the butt beneath her heel, and looked at me. “Your mother is in a high-end nursing facility out of town.” She got into the car. “We’ll go tomorrow. Tonight, you’re coming home with us.” I stood still, the refusal already in my throat, but I couldn’t speak it. I didn’t even have the cash for a cheap motel. I had nowhere to go. Head down, I climbed back into the car, watching as we drove into the exclusive, gated community downtown. Years ago, when Tori was first starting her company, she brought me to see this complex. She put her arm around my waist, pointing at the grandest villa by the lake. “When I make enough money, I’ll buy that one, and I’ll marry you.” I found out later that she’d already purchased the property. She’d only found me a small, beautiful apartment outside the city—a gilded cage—while this house, her real home, was kept for Dom. I was the kept boy, the substitute. And like an idiot, I had believed I had a place in her future. Dom leaned closer to Tori. “Honey, I’m still a little cold.” Tori reached out, adjusted the heat higher, and then took off her expensive coat to drape it over his shoulders. “Why didn’t you dress warmer? Your hands are ice.” Watching their easy intimacy, my chest constricted painfully. I remembered when I shivered once in her arms, and she instantly took me on a shopping spree, shutting down half the department store. I mentioned, once, that I missed seeing the stars. The next day, there was a massive telescope on our balcony, and a famous astronomer was on a live video call to explain the constellations to me. She used to come home, the first thing she’d do was pull me into a hug, kiss my jaw, and ask what I wanted for dinner. She remembered my favorite dishes, kept my prescription medicine handy for my bad stomach, and quietly covered me with a blanket when I worked late. The love was so overwhelming back then, it felt like it could swallow me whole. That was how I was drawn in, piece by piece. But it was all an act. She was a phenomenal actress, and I, a perfect fool. The housekeeper’s voice calling me upstairs snapped me out of the memory. I walked into the massive en suite bathroom, desperate for a hot shower. The imported, complicated shower system was too advanced. I must have hit the wrong button, because a column of icy cold water slammed down on my head. I gasped, soaked to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. That sudden, freezing drenching made one thing crystal clear: I was still a world away from her. As I fumbled to turn the water off, the bathroom door burst open. Tori rushed in, grabbing me and dragging me out. A gut-wrenching scream rose from downstairs. Dom was crying hysterically, clutching the child. Foam was on the baby’s lips, and blood streamed from its forehead—it looked like it had taken a terrible fall down the main stairs. In the ensuing chaos, I was shoved into the car with the rest of them, heading to the hospital. Watching Dom cry, cradling his child, I simply clenched my own wet clothes, swallowing my own suffering. The doctor was grave after the initial examination. “Severe blood loss. We need an immediate transfusion. However, the child has a rare blood type—Rh-Negative. We’re short on supply…” Suddenly, the reason for my hurried arrival, for my very existence in her life, snapped into focus. She hadn’t just brought me home; she’d brought me back to serve as a blood bag for her son. She grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the nurse. “Use his blood. He’s Rh-Negative, too.” The nurse approached with a needle. I took a stumbling step backward. Tori leaned close, whispering in my ear. “No blood today, no mother tomorrow.” The same leverage. Always my mother. Four years of prison, ruined hands, forced marriage, and now this coerced bloodletting—the new cruelty merged with the old hatred. In a blinding flash of fury, I lifted my hand and swung it at that familiar, commanding face. Smack! Tori’s head snapped sideways. She stared at me, disbelief twisting her features. I had always been compliant, never once even raising my voice, much less my hand. My palm stung, but a dark, twisted satisfaction erupted in my chest. “Tori Leighton,” I spat out, my voice ragged. “I am a person! I’m not a goddamn tool for you to use and discard!” But two fists are no match for hired muscle. The bodyguards quickly pinned me and dragged me to the collection room. “Andy Virgil, everything you are was given by me,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Don’t talk to me about blood. If I ask for your life, you have to give it.” I closed my eyes in despair, tears tracing tracks through the grime on my face. Four years in prison. I survived that. This pain is nothing. The red blood flowed through the clear tube. 200cc. 300cc. 400cc. I lost track of time. My breathing became shallow, and I could hear my heart thudding violently in my ears. “Is that enough yet?” Tori demanded, her voice tight with impatience. The nurse finally stopped, looking apologetic. “That’s plenty, ma’am.” I stumbled out of the collection room, using the wall for support. As I lifted my head, my eyes caught a framed landscape picture next to a notice board—a familiar scene. That corner. That exact painting. It appeared often in the video updates my mother sent me. A gigantic surge of adrenaline and elation shot through my veins. She’s here! She has to be! I stumbled toward the nurse’s station. “Excuse me, please. Is there a patient here named Helena Virgil?” The nurse typed a few keys. My breath hitched in my throat, my heart trying to beat its way out of my ribs. I was frantic to see my mother, terrified Tori would swoop in and stop me. I fixed my desperate gaze on the nurse’s face, only to see pity reflected in her eyes. “Helena Virgil? The late-stage liver cancer patient? She died two years ago.” My heart stopped. A massive ringing sound drowned out all other noise. “You… what?” “Yes. She passed away two years ago. The family signed the Do Not Resuscitate order, said they couldn’t afford treatment anymore. They picked up the ashes.” Couldn’t afford it? Tori promised me she would cover all the costs. I went to prison for her other man, lost my hands, gave her my soul—and she let my mother die, just to save money? A tidal wave of hate and self-loathing washed over me. My limbs went numb; I was suffocating. All those letters. All those videos. They were all fake. I have nothing left. The wind howled outside. I was shaking. I climbed onto the windowsill, taking one last look at this monstrous world. Down the hallway, I saw a doctor quietly relaying good news. Tori put her arms around a visibly relieved Dom. Their child must have stabilized. I didn’t hesitate. I threw myself forward, a final leap. In the blurred rush, I saw Tori, suddenly frantic, lunging toward me, grabbing my wrist. Her hands, usually so steady, were shaking violently.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "390593", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel