At 10 PM, my fiancé Greg was still "working late." Scrolling through TikTok, I found a viral trend: "A Toast to Myself." A delicate-faced girl raised a glass of milk, her voice trembling: "First toast to me—for shamelessly getting his number after four days of pursuit." A man in stripes appeared, head cropped out: "Second toast to me—for traveling through a blizzard just to see him for a moment." "Third toast to him," she whispered, tears welling. "The man forced to marry another... I wish him happiness." My blood turned to ice. The striped shirt was the one I'd bought Greg. 1 The video was short, ending on a close-up of the girl’s tear-filled eyes. The comment section had exploded. 【OMG, my heart breaks for her. It’s so sad when soulmates can’t be together.】 【What are these ‘cruel realities’? Spill the tea, girl! We’ll help you figure it out!】 【Is she talking about Stonebridge? I remember that blizzard last Christmas. It was insane. All the trains and buses were shut down. The fact that she made it through that is a testament to true love.】 Most of the comments were celebrating their epic, tragic romance. But a few users pointed out the red flags. 【Idk, something feels off. She’s being super vague.】 【Why won’t the guy show his face? Is it because he doesn’t want to, or because he can’t?】 【^^^ Exactly what I was thinking. Hiding his face is shady AF.】 But those comments vanished as quickly as they appeared. Lying there in the dark, a deep, unsettling coldness seeped into my bones. The man in the video looked too much like Greg. He owned the exact same striped t-shirt. But that alone wasn’t proof. But what about the finger? The moment the man in the video raised his right hand, I saw it. The missing tip of his right index finger. Greg had the same scar. It happened during our second year of vet school, when we were interning together. A vicious dog lunged for me, and he threw himself in front of it to protect me. The dog had torn off a piece of his flesh. The incident left him with deep-seated trauma. After graduation, he switched careers entirely, leaving veterinary medicine behind to teach at a community college in Ashton. Then, last summer, he moved back to Stonebridge, where I lived, taking a job as a technical consultant at a biotech firm. We officially moved in together. A few weeks ago, he proposed. Everything… every single timeline… it all lined up with the video. And I remembered last Christmas all too well. The blizzard had paralyzed the city, shutting down everything. Yet, Greg had called to tell me he was stuck at the office, working overtime. I didn't buy it—what kind of company would be so inhumane as to force employees to work in that weather? I went out to find him, but I slipped on the ice and fell hard. Blood bloomed against the stark white snow, a crimson stain spreading from between my legs. A stranger rushed me to the hospital. It was there I learned I’d been two months pregnant. Two months before, Greg and I, a little drunk and reckless, had been together without protection. I’d taken the morning-after pill, but it hadn’t worked. I never even knew our child existed before they were gone. And through it all, Greg’s phone was unreachable. Hours later, he finally dragged himself into the hospital room, his body heavy with exhaustion. He wrapped his arms around me, begging for my forgiveness. "Sophie," he’d whispered, "I'm so sorry. I fell asleep at the office. We can have another baby, I promise. Just… just don’t leave me." It was a pathetic excuse, but back then, I actually believed him. Now, snapping back to the present, I finished the video and immediately called him. It went straight to voicemail. I sent him a text. “Greg, if you don't call me back right now, we're done.” Two minutes later, my phone rang. His voice was thick with sleep. “Sophie? What's up? I must have dozed off.” The same excuse. But this time, I wasn’t buying it. My voice was eerily calm. “You seem to fall asleep a lot during your overtime shifts. Doesn’t your boss mind?” Greg let out an awkward laugh. “It’s fine, he doesn’t care if I catch a quick nap now and then.” I hummed a noncommittal “uh-huh.” “Are you coming home tonight?” I asked. “Probably not,” he hesitated. “There’s still a ton of work to get through. You should get some sleep, Sophie. Be good.” I was about to say something else, but then I heard it—a soft, almost inaudible moan from his end of the line. The call ended abruptly. I felt like I’d been plunged into ice water. 2 As a grown woman, I knew exactly what that sound meant. Nausea churned in my stomach. I grabbed the matching smartwatches we wore. A Valentine’s Day gift from Greg a few months back. I never liked wearing anything on my wrists, so I’d only put it on for a few days to be nice. Greg, however, never took his off. And the watches had a live GPS tracking feature. I opened the app. His location popped up: an upscale apartment complex about three miles away. My heart hammered against my ribs as I threw on some clothes and rushed out the door. Security at the complex was tight; you couldn’t even get past the main gate without a key card. I found a spot to wait nearby and ordered takeout on my phone. I put in the correct address and Greg's name, but a fake phone number. Thirty minutes later, the delivery guy showed up with the food. All deliveries had to be left at the security booth. “Hey,” he grumbled to the guard, “this number’s not working. Can you check if a guy with this name actually lives here?” The guard took the order slip, glanced at the resident directory, and accepted the package. He picked up the intercom phone, presumably to call Greg. A few minutes later, Greg appeared at the gate, dressed in casual loungewear. Even though I’d prepared myself, the sight of him sent a fresh wave of pain through my chest. He picked up the food, a confused look on his face. “This isn’t mine. I didn’t order anything.” The guard smiled politely. “The name and address are correct, sir. Maybe you should double-check.” Greg paused, then pulled out his phone to make a call. His back was to me, and his voice was too low for me to hear what he was saying. But he was tapping his foot lightly on the ground—a tell-tale sign he was in a good mood. A moment later, a girl came down to the gate. It was her. The girl from the video. She threw herself into Greg’s arms, her voice a playful pout. “I didn’t order anything, but I am hungry. Let’s go out and eat.” Greg smiled, running his fingers through her hair in a gesture of pure adoration. They left the takeout with the guard and walked out of the complex, tangled up in each other. As they passed the gate, Greg’s eyes suddenly flicked in my direction. Thankfully, I’d pulled my hat down and had a mask on. A cold dread settled over me. Greg was cheating. The man I had loved for eight years, the man I was supposed to marry in a month, was having an affair. And the worst part? This probably wasn’t the first time. The lies had likely started the moment he moved back to Stonebridge. 3 I followed them, keeping a safe distance, my phone recording everything. The girl rubbed her lower back, her voice a syrupy whine. “It’s all your fault, you know. You wore me out. My back is killing me.” Greg playfully tapped her nose. “My fault, my fault. It’s just… the thought of being away from you makes me crazy.” When was the last time he and I had been intimate? Three months ago? Six? After the miscarriage, I’d developed an aversion to sex. I couldn’t even stand to look at him some days. By the time I started feeling like myself again, he was the one pulling away, always using the excuse of being too tired from work. We had been together for eight years. Our passion had slowly faded into a comfortable, familial bond. Everyone told me this was normal, that the deepest love eventually settles into a quiet companionship. But I refused to accept that. I remembered the fire in his eyes when he loved me, and I couldn't bear the placid indifference that had replaced it. One night, I’d decided to end it. I was ready to tell him we were over. But as if he’d read my mind, Greg suddenly dropped to one knee, pulling out a delicate ring box. He asked me to marry him. In that moment, all my resolve melted away. I followed them to a small noodle bar and lingered outside the window, watching. Greg meticulously wiped down their table and chairs with a sanitizer wipe. He snapped open a pair of disposable chopsticks, carefully sanding off any tiny splinters. When their food arrived, he seasoned her bowl with a dash of soy sauce and vinegar before handing it to her. Her noodles had no cilantro or green onions, and not a hint of chili. You see, he knew exactly how to be the perfect boyfriend. He just didn’t want to be that person for me anymore. She smiled sweetly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with her left hand. And on her wrist, a smartwatch. The exact same model as mine. I stood there, frozen, for a long time. I took one last photo and turned away. Greg Hayes. I was done with him. But before I walked away for good, I was going to make him pay for every last lie. 4 The next day during my lunch break, I started digging through the girl’s Instagram profile. In the comments of yesterday’s video, someone had asked what “cruel realities” were keeping them apart. She’d replied with just four words: “A gap in our status.” What kind of status gap? Greg was just an ordinary guy. His master’s degree was his only real accomplishment, and even that was commonplace these days. Unless… was she referring to the status gap between a mistress and a soon-to-be-married man? That made a twisted kind of sense. It was something you couldn’t exactly talk about openly. Then another comment caught my eye. 【Girl, you are gorgeous. Why’d you have to chase a guy for four days to get his number? Is he that hot or something?】 Her reply: “It wasn’t just that. He’s also someone I deeply admire.” Admire. The pieces started clicking into place, and my head began to throb. The professions that inspire admiration are few and far between. And Greg had taught at a community college in Ashton for a short time after graduation. He was only there a year before he quit and came back. I’d assumed he was unhappy with the job and didn’t press him for details. With a growing sense of dread, I scrolled through her entire feed. She was an oversharer, with nearly a hundred posts documenting her life. Finally, in one of her earliest posts, I found a clue. It was a photo of a much younger-looking girl standing in front of a stone tower. The caption read: My favorite kind of cardio is hiking up to this view. I saved the image and ran a reverse image search. The results came back instantly. It was a landmark in Ashton. The post was dated April of last year. Who, I wondered, had taken that picture for her? A cold sweat broke out on my skin. I found the contact number for the community college where he used to work. I told the person on the other end that I was looking for a former instructor named Greg Hayes. The moment I said his name, the voice turned hostile. “We have no instructor by that name here.” “Please,” I begged, letting my voice crack. “He’s my fiancé. I haven’t been able to reach him for days, I’m so worried.” The woman on the phone, hearing the desperation in my voice, softened. “Honey,” she said gently, “you should stop looking for him. He was fired from the college last year.” The line went dead. I just stood there, stunned. Not resigned. Fired. A second later, a text message came through from an unknown number. Listen, you should probably divorce him. The reason your husband was fired? An inappropriate relationship with a student. The message hit me like a bolt of lightning, leaving me numb and shivering. There was no doubt in my mind. The girl in the video was his former student. I put my phone down, my movements stiff and robotic. I tried to stay calm, to breathe, but the violent trembling of my hands betrayed me. 5 “Dr. Reed, your next surgery is in ten minutes.” My assistant’s voice snapped me back to reality. I had almost forgotten about the major procedure scheduled for this afternoon. An animal’s life was waiting for me. I couldn’t afford to waste my energy on Greg. I pulled the engagement ring from my finger and placed it in my desk drawer. Four hours later, I walked out of the operating room, exhausted but satisfied. The dog’s owner thanked me profusely. After turning down his offer of a gift, I sat alone in my office, trying to unwind. My fingers unconsciously found their way to the ring in my drawer. It was from a special jeweler—the kind where a man can only ever custom-order one ring in his entire lifetime. I couldn’t fathom how Greg could be entangled with another woman while simultaneously ordering this symbol of eternal devotion for me, all without batting an eye. His capacity for deception was truly remarkable. I rubbed the cool metal between my fingers until it warmed to my touch. Suddenly, I noticed something. On the inner band, there was a tiny, almost invisible inscription. I squinted, holding it up to the light. It was a combination of letters and numbers. 【EH LUV LS 4EVER】 My hand flew open as if I’d been burned. The ring slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the floor with a sharp, mocking sound. How dare he? How could he propose to me with a ring he had custom-made for someone else? A tidal wave of rage and betrayal crashed over me. Tears I had been holding back for so long finally broke free, streaming down my face. I buried my head in my arms, trying to muffle the ragged sobs. I only stopped when my assistant knocked, asking if she could come in to clean. I hastily wiped my eyes. She entered cautiously, then bent down and picked up the ring. “Dr. Reed, you dropped this.” I took it from her, my fist closing tightly around it. After work, I didn’t go home. Instead, I drove to the only boutique for that particular jeweler in the city. I handed the ring to the clerk. “I’d like to inquire about the customization record for this piece,” I said calmly. “I’m not happy with this inscription.” The clerk looked up the order on her computer, a puzzled expression on her face. “Miss Shaw, our records show you requested this engraving yourself. You approved it in person. Is there a problem?” Lily Shaw. So that was her name. I forced a smile and shook my head. When I got home, Greg was already in the kitchen, prepping dinner. He heard the door open and called out cheerfully, “Sophie! I’m making your favorite, my signature shredded chicken!” I didn’t answer, just dropped my bag and sat down at the table, my face a cold mask. He brought the dishes out from the kitchen, one by one. To any outsider, he was the perfect fiancé: handsome, good-tempered, a great cook, with a respectable job. His performance was so flawless it had fooled my entire family, and it had almost fooled me. He placed the final dish, the shredded chicken, in the center of the table. I slammed my chopsticks down. “Why is there no cilantro? No green onions? And no chili?” Greg’s smile froze for a split second before returning. “Oh, look at me,” he chuckled, “my brain’s been so fried with work lately, I must have gotten it mixed up.” It couldn’t be easy, juggling a full-time job and two different women. “Oh?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “So who is it that doesn’t like cilantro, green onions, or chili?” He froze, his back to me as he reached for the spice rack. A clatter of glass jars shattered the silence as they fell to the floor. As Greg scrambled to clean up the mess, I got up to help. A shard of glass sliced my finger, and a bead of blood welled up. He immediately abandoned the mess and rushed to get the first-aid kit. As he was wrapping a bandage around my finger, he stopped, his eyes fixed on my hand. “Sophie… where’s your ring?” “The ring?” I said, feigning nonchalance. “Oh, I lost it.” His reaction was explosive. “You lost it? Sophie, that was a one-of-a-kind ring! I can never order another one!” I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “A man can only buy one ring, but that doesn’t mean he’ll only love one woman, does it?” Greg stared at me, a flicker of panic in his eyes. To quell his suspicion, I swallowed my disgust and wrapped my arms around him. “Greg, I’m sorry, it was my fault. Will you… will you buy me another ring?” He nodded, relief washing over his face.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394113", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel