Sweetheart Comic Series, New City, NY (2026)

10/22/2026

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Daisy just wanted a dad on Christmas. Black called her a bastard and kicked her out. Then the box revealed the truth.
Should he
A) Beg for her forgiveness? B) Let her go forever?
Vote, then tap that link! 🔗

10/22/2026

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Besties, mom lied about marrying rich to spare him. Daughter ends up in an orphanage, calls dad on Christmas, gets called “bastard” and kicked into the snow. Then he finds the box. The regret is REAL. Tap that link! 🔗

10/22/2026

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Five years ago she lied to spare him pain. Now their daughter calls him “Daddy” in the snow—and he calls her a bastard. One box changes everything. Tap that link or miss the tears!

10/22/2026

💓：The campus forum voted me a four-eyed lab rat who must have drugged the hockey prince into kissing her. What they didn't know: I was the only student on that campus running a graduate-level watershed model, and his team captain had just fixed my code in four hours. 🧠
💥More chapter here 👉：https://eng.moboreader.com/1PnBQL/295EHM
📕：《The Hockey Prince's Secret Ice Queen》
They called me four-eyes. They called me the creek girl who dug in mud. On Sidechat, the trending post about my staged kiss with Julian Andrews had a pinned comment from some random student: Did she drug him? Below it, dozens agreed. The four-eyed lab rat had probably crawled out of the science basement to climb the social ladder. Someone joked they would have her name and major doxxed within two hours.

Let them dig. They were about to be very disappointed. 😏

Everyone on campus had me figured out inside five seconds. The hoodie swallowed my frame. The thick black-rimmed glasses sat heavy on my nose. My dark hair was always twisted into a cheap plastic claw clip, my eyes shadowed with dark circles from another all-nighter. I dressed on purpose like a ghost. I had dressed like a ghost for four years, ever since the sport I had dedicated my whole childhood to turned around and tried to bury my name. Being unseen was the safest thing I knew.

But unseen was not the same as stupid. That was the mistake they kept making.

Because the girl they laughed at was not a nobody. I was Professor Beaumont's senior research student — the one he trusted with the endowment my late father had left behind. For two years I had been building a non-linear dynamic model of Havenwood Creek, mapping the fluid behavior of an entire watershed, trying to finish the ecological study my father had started before he died. The work was tedious, arcane, and almost invisible to anyone who did not hold an environmental science degree. No one on the quad saw it. All they saw was the hoodie and the glasses.

For forty-eight hours I had not slept. My simulation kept crashing. Node forty-two had been throwing errors for two straight weeks, and I could not find the flaw. The department had given me until Friday. Miss the deadline, and they pulled the grant — which meant no working model, no senior thesis, no graduation in May, and my father's final ecological legacy reduced to scrap paper in a filing cabinet.

I had been panicking so hard I could barely eat. I had rewritten the boundary calculations three times. I had stared at red error logs until my eyes burned. And then, in the middle of the quad, in front of a dozen phones and a howling hockey team, the campus golden boy looked down at me and diagnosed my whole project in one sentence.

"Your simulation keeps crashing because your core fluid algorithm strategy is flawed," Julian Andrews said, quiet and deadly sure. "I know how to fix it. Help me get through this bet, and I'll rewrite your boundary calculations tonight."

I had heard the rumors about Beaumont's nephew. The CS prodigy. The genius everyone in the department whispered about. I had just never once connected that name to the varsity captain in the navy-and-gold jacket.

That night, at nine o'clock on the dot, my laptop pinged. An email from an unrecognized student address, a heavy zip file attached. I ran it with trembling fingers, and the red error logs that had haunted node forty-two for two weeks vanished. The fluid-velocity curves mapped themselves across my screen in flawless, seamless arcs.

He had done it in under four hours. ✨

I sat back in my chair, staring at a model that had been dead on its feet an hour before, now running clean and fast, and I felt something I had not felt in days. Relief. Then, underneath it, a slow, burning pride. The algorithm that had stumped me for a fortnight fell to a single night's work — not because I was stupid, but because I had been trying to solve a computational problem from an environmental scientist's toolkit. Julian spoke the other language, the math underneath the math. We were two halves of the same equation, and neither half worked alone.

I sat there for a long time after that, watching the curves render, and I thought about my father. He had been the one who first brought me to Havenwood Creek as a child, wading through the shallows in rubber boots, explaining how the water moved. He had died before the model was finished, and the endowment he left behind was the only piece of him I still controlled. If I lost it on a Friday deadline, I lost more than a diploma. I lost the last thing he and I had ever built together. That was why I had stayed up for two days. That was why I took a staged kiss from a hockey captain when he offered it.

That was also why, when the entire campus called me a four-eyed nobody, I did not care. They had no idea what was actually on the line.

That was the deal. That was all it was. He gave me back my degree; I gave him two seconds on the quad.

But the world outside our transaction had already decided what I was. Back on Sidechat, the comments were brutal. Four-eyed lab nerd. Looks like she hasn't brushed her hair since midterms. Poor Julian, someone get him hand sanitizer before those thick lenses scratch his face. The verified account at the top, , posted a crown beside a single dismissive line: Some girls will do anything for five seconds of attention. 💅

I read every word. And for the first time in four years, I did not flinch.

I had flinched before. Four years ago, when the reporters started calling, when my own family turned the cameras against me, I had flinched so hard I changed my whole name and major. I had hidden in oversized fleece and thick glasses because being the center of a story had nearly killed me. But there is a difference between a scandal and a joke, and a campus forum full of strangers making fun of my glasses was the smallest thing that had ever happened to me. I had survived worse than Sidechat. I had survived the people who were supposed to love me.

Because I knew something Brooke Sterling and her cheerleading squad would never understand. They could mock my glasses. They could make thirst traps about the boy I had only ever kissed for show. But my name was going on a senior capstone that protected a creek. My code was going to feed a watershed model my father had believed in. Their names would be forgotten by next semester; my father's data would outlive all of us.

The real joke, it turned out, was on them.

Saturday afternoon, the locker-room dare turned into an ice-rink spectacle, and Brooke herself skated up to link her arm through Julian's, measuring my bare face and faded sweater against her airbrushed perfection. "You got the four-eyed creek girl who digs in mud to coach you?" She laughed. Her squad giggled on cue. Sasha asked if I could even see through my lenses, if maybe I should just hold the captain's water bottle.

I did not answer them. I had learned long ago that you do not explain a watershed model to people who only want a punchline. You just run it. Let them stare at the glasses while the data proved them wrong, one flawless velocity curve at a time.

Analia, my red-haired roommate, nearly climbed over the barrier. "Her four-eyed brain has more processing power in its left pinky than your entire squad combined."

I held her back. I did not need Analia to fight for me. I had spent four years being quiet, and quiet had kept me alive, but quiet was also the only language these people understood — the language of someone who had already lost, who had nothing to hit back with.

Until Landon shouted about a girls' figure skating contest, winner taking a date with the captain, and I did the math.

Winning meant uninterrupted, one-on-one time with the sharpest coder on campus. It meant a private, multi-hour session with the boy who had already rescued my once-crashing model once, on demand, disguised as a campus reward. I was not competing for romance. I was competing to lock down my father's legacy past Friday and beyond. Every hour I spent with his mind on my problem was another hour of certainty that Havenwood Creek would survive my senior year.

Julian watched the calculation cross my face, and his pale blue eyes gleamed. "The winner gets to call the shots on the date, Kelley. Whatever you want to do with that time... is entirely up to you."

He got it. He understood that I was not here to be won, that I was here to win — that behind the thick glasses and the baggy hoodie was a girl who had already run a model nobody else on campus could build.

I said count me in. And when Brooke skated her basic spin and blew him a kiss and waited for me to fall on my face, I let go of the one hand holding me up and landed a double Axel that silenced the whole arena.

Four years ago, my family and my own training partner had framed me and burned my skating career to ash. 💔 I had buried that name and become Sage Kelley the environmental science student, because being seen on a rink had nearly destroyed me. But being underestimated? Being dismissed as the four-eyed lab rat? That had never once stopped me. 🔥

The girl they mocked could run a fluid model their sorority houses would never understand. And the next time they laughed at the quiet one in the glasses, they would learn the same thing the error logs had learned.

She was always the smartest person in the room. 👑 They were just too busy looking at her lenses to notice.
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10/22/2026

💓：He woke up hungover to three missed calls and a text he'd sent canceling our birthday breakfast — then tossed my signed divorce papers onto a junk-mail pile without opening them. He still hasn't noticed I'm gone. 💀
💥More chapter here 👉：https://eng.moboreader.com/1OL661/258HRT
📕：《His Unwanted Wife, The Hidden Genius》
Let me show you the other side of that morning. Aurelia had been gone for hours, carrying her worn canvas duffel down the grand staircase while the house still reeked of stale alcohol and extinguished candles. Declan Hartford slept through all of it in a guest bedroom — the room he'd crashed in after the party died down around three. When he finally opened his eyes, a dull, throbbing ache pounded behind his temples, and the morning sun blazed through the high curtains like an accusation he chose to ignore.

He dragged himself out of bed, rubbed the stiff bridge of his nose, and checked his phone. Three missed calls from his business manager. Four text messages from league executives praising the team's media coverage. And below them, a message from Sloane sent at 2:30 in the morning: "Brilliant night, Declan. The press is eating up the Zenith preview." Beneath that thread sat the text he had sent Aurelia himself — the one canceling our breakfast reservation. Emergency board meeting. Regional broadcast rights. Don't wait up.

No reply.

He scoffed under his breath and tossed the phone onto the unmade bed. She was pouting again. That was his read. 😏 In his head, Aurelia had a habit of retreating into sullen silence whenever the demands of his family or the team conflicted with her domestic expectations. She was brilliant with dietary spreadsheets, he thought, but she had zero concept of what it actually took to run a major sports franchise in New York. He did not wonder why there was no reply. He did not wonder where she was, or whether the 4 p.m. flight from Boston had even brought her home. He took a fifteen-minute scalding shower, pulled on a fresh navy suit and a crisp white shirt, and walked downstairs looking for coffee.

The cleaning staff was already vacuuming the carpets and polishing the mahogany tables. Mrs. Aldridge, the head housekeeper who had served the Hartford family for twenty years, approached him in the grand entry hall holding a silver tray with his black coffee and a plain manila envelope. "Good morning, Mr. Hartford," she said. "Mrs. Hartford left this for you before departing for Boston."

"Boston?" He took the coffee cup, frowning. "She didn't mention another trip."

"She said she had an early conference, sir."

He took the envelope from the tray. It was thin and unsealed. He lifted the flap with his thumb, about to pull out the document — and then his phone vibrated violently against his hip. The caller ID displayed Sloane Whitfield. He answered immediately, bringing the phone to his ear.

"Declan, thank God you're awake." Her melodic voice filled the line. "The Zenith organizers just reached out. They want the Hartford Foundation to co-sponsor the keynote panel on athlete longevity, but they need confirmation on the grant allocation before noon. Can we finalize the numbers?"

"I'm heading to the office right now," he said, already walking toward the heavy front door. Distracted by her question, he tossed the manila envelope onto the marble console table in the foyer, letting it land squarely atop a growing pile of luxury-car brochures, glossy architectural magazines, and junk mail. He never looked back at it.

"Give me the top-line figure," he continued into the phone, grabbing his leather briefcase from the bench. "If your predictive model delivers the kind of injury reductions you promised the coaching staff, the board will sign off on the funding without hesitation."

"You won't regret it, Declan," Sloane purred. "This is going to put our team at the cutting edge of the entire league."

"I'll see you in the boardroom at ten," he said, and ended the call. He pushed through the front doors, stepped into the waiting town car, and slammed the door shut behind him — completely forgetting the envelope existed. 💀

Now sit with that for a second. The signed divorce papers were in the house. They claimed zero spousal support, zero shares in Hartford Sports & Entertainment, zero claim to the townhouse. Everything I had ever asked for back was just my maiden name and my intellectual property. Mrs. Aldridge had handed him the envelope with her own wrinkled hands. He had lifted the flap. And a phone call from the woman hosting his parties had made him throw his marriage onto a pile of car brochures and drive away.

He thinks she's pouting. He thinks she's upstairs sulking, waiting for him to come home. He has no idea she is already on a 6:15 a.m. shuttle out of JFK, heading back to Boston to deploy the real version of the science he is about to fund the fake version of. He has no idea that the model he's trusting Sloane with is built on a preprint she couldn't possibly understand, and that the author of that model just walked out of his life forever. He has no idea that the quiet wife he sent upstairs is the only person in the world who can make the Zenith Summit either crown his new girlfriend or bury her.

Let me tell you what he thinks he knows about his wife. He thinks she likes dietary spreadsheets. He thinks she retreats into silence when he is busy. He thinks her trips to Boston are some quiet little academic hobby, a harmless hobby a well-kept wife occupies herself with. It has never once occurred to him to ask what she actually does in Boston, because in his mind she does not do anything. She exists. She decorates a suite. She pouts when ignored. That is the whole of the file he keeps on her.

It has also never occurred to him that the "breakthrough" Sloane is so confident about came from somewhere. A predictive model that accurate does not appear out of a socialite's intuition. It takes years of clinical trials, of scanned bodies, of late nights feeding data into a private server. He has simply never connected those late nights to the woman he married. He has confused absence for emptiness.

And the cruelest part — the part that will one day split him open — is that the envelope was in his hands. For three seconds, his thumb was under the flap. He could have pulled out the divorce papers on the spot. He could have read "zero spousal support, zero shares, zero claims" and understood, in that foyer, that his wife was leaving. But Sloane's voice came through the phone, and a grant allocation sounded more urgent than a thin envelope, and he tossed his own marriage onto a pile of car brochures. 🤯

All he knows is that breakfast was canceled. All he knows is that Sloane sounded brilliant on the phone. All he knows is that his wife isn't answering, and in his experience that means she'll be over it by dinner. He climbed into the town car and let the driver pull away, already calculating grant allocations in his head.

He is a man who runs an NHL franchise. He reads spreadsheets. He trusts the board, the sponsors, the numbers Sloane promises him. What he does not read — what he has never once read — is the woman sitting quietly in the back of his own life. He mistakes her silence for agreement. He mistakes her absence for consent. He thinks a marriage is a building he owns, not a person who can walk out the door.

And the joke, the quiet joke that is going to ruin him one day, is that the envelope was already on the console. The divorce was already signed. His wife was already wheels-up toward Boston. The only thing left in that whole house that still wanted anything from him was a thin manila packet buried beneath junk mail, and even that he had already decided not to open. 👀

Behind him, on the console table, a thin envelope sat buried beneath the junk mail, waiting for a hand that would not reach down for it until it was far too late.

He will open that envelope eventually. Maybe next week, when someone finally clears off the console. Maybe the day Sloane's model collapses in front of the Zenith panel and he needs to understand why.

I want you to picture the exact face he will make when he does. Not the face he made when I was standing in his foyer — the irritated, glancing-away face. A different face. The face of a man who reaches for a pile of junk mail, pulls out a thin envelope he has carried through weeks of board meetings, and realizes the wife he kept sending upstairs was never coming back. The face of a man who learns, too late, that the spreadsheets he mocked were the only thing of real value he ever owned.

Because that is the part he has not calculated. He thinks losing me costs him nothing. He thinks I am replaceable, that any quiet woman can fill the sterile bedroom. But the model he is funding Sloane to present is mine. The science that was going to make his team "cutting edge" was built in the quiet of my nights, and the moment I withdraw it, the whole structure he is about to build on it starts to rot. He will open the envelope. And he will understand, all at once, that he did not just lose a wife. He lost the author. 💔

But by then it won't matter what he feels. The papers will be signed. The airport will be three hundred miles behind her. And the wife he treated like an annoying afterthought will already be building a legacy that doesn't include his name, his boardroom, or his charity galas. 😮‍💨
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10/22/2026

💓：I walked into my dying grandmother's birthday party with the richest man in the building on my arm — straight past my ex-fiancé and the cousin who slept in my bed. For the first time in six months, nobody in that room pitied me. 😈
💥More chapter here 👉：https://eng.moboreader.com/1N8kJZ/294YML
📕：《FAKE DATING WITH BENEFITS: MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS》
My mother called it wonderful news twice before she said the actual thing. First it was Linda from book club's son, a lawyer back from London, thirty-five, handsome if I do say so myself. Then it was my grandmother turning eighty-seven next week and really wanting me there. And only when I said I wasn't going did my mother put down the armor and tell me the truth.

"Your grandmother has cancer. Advanced stage. The doctors gave her months. This might be her last birthday."

The world stopped. Not dramatically. Just stopped, like something unplugged. 😖

She loves you. She's asked about you every day. Please come. For me. For her.

And I sat in my office with my hand over my mouth doing the arithmetic of a family event, which is a special kind of hell because you can't opt out of blood. Going meant walking into a house where Oliver and Vanessa would be newlyweds, happy, standing in the same hallway as a dying woman, while every relative performed that poor thing face I already get at work every single day. Not going meant spending whatever months she has left explaining to myself why I'd chosen humiliation over her.

So I agreed to go, and then I panicked, because I had no plan for surviving the entrance.

That's what Simon Hart actually sold me. Not s*x, though he added that later like a rider nobody requested. What he sold was an exit from pity. "Just think about it. You're tired of everyone pitying you. I'm rich as f**k, handsome as hell, and charming as f**k. Who's going to feel sorry for you when you show up with Simon Hart on your arm?"

The problem is, he was right. That's the infuriating part. Men like him don't appeal to your hopelessness, they appeal to your arithmetic, and his numbers were impeccable.

Here's what nobody tells you about being the jilted bride in a family that loves an audience: the pity isn't kindness, it's maintenance. It keeps you in your place. Every aunt who touches your arm and says you'll find someone eventually is confirming that you are a project now, not a person. At Thanksgiving I am the cautionary tale. At weddings — I still get invited to weddings, which I have never understood — I am the reminder, the one they seat near the back so nobody has to explain me twice. And at a birthday party for a woman who is dying and asked for me by name, I would have been the tragedy in the corner while the newlyweds cut the cake.

I decided I would rather burn.

The other thing nobody tells you: my mother had already prepared my replacement. She sent me the London lawyer's contact information like it was a coupon. Thirty-five, successful, a lawyer, vaguely familiar with his haircut. She wanted me to go on that interview the way she'd wanted me to marry Oliver — calmly, on schedule, with everyone approving. Instead I showed up with a billionaire who made stock prices jump by walking into a room, and my mother did not ask me a single question about my love life for two days, which I counted as a professional victory and then immediately felt ashamed of counting.

So we built the weekend like a case. We agreed on a number for how long we'd been seeing each other and we never changed it. He learned my coffee order and called it a disaster, which was accurate. He memorized the garden my grandmother planted in 1974 and three facts about my uncle's interest-rate theories. I told him exactly where his hands could go in front of my family and he initialled it like a deliverable. Two events. Some convincing touching. Absolutely zero feelings.

We arrived late on purpose, which was Simon's idea, and it worked like a weapon. ⏱️

The door opened onto a room full of people who had rehearsed their faces, and the rehearsing showed. Because Simon Hart does not walk into a space, he annexes it. Armani immaculate, that dangerous shade of blue eyes sweeping the room like he's assessing property, hand flat and warm at the small of my back, and the entire house doing the same mental recalibration I'd felt in the elevator forty-seven floors above Manhattan every morning: wait, that Jamie? The one who got destroyed? With *him*? 😏

I watched my mother's face go from pity to confusion to something dangerously close to delight.

And then I saw them. 👀

Oliver. In a sweater I picked out two years ago, holding Vanessa's waist at the drink table, both of them relaxed in a way that meant they'd done this many times in the six months since my bedroom became their origin story. My cousin wearing my tiara's leftovers — the earrings, at least, I noticed that, I noticed everything, that's what ten years does to a woman's eye for detail. They turned. They saw us. And the little performance of surprise they attempted was so bad I had to physically stop myself from critiquing it like opposing counsel.

Simon leaned down, close enough that only I got it, and murmured, "Counselor. Smile. You're winning."

So I smiled. God help me, I smiled with my whole face.

What followed was the best and worst weekend of my adult life, and I mean that literally, because my grandmother took my hand in the garden — the garden she planted in 1974, which Simon knew about because he'd done his homework — and looked at him for a long moment, and something in her expression eased.

"He's rude," she said, about my ex, in front of my ex, using the volume of a woman who has survived eighty-seven years and stopped caring about seating arrangements. "You deserve someone rude in a better direction."

My grandmother was dying. Doctors gave her months. And she used one of her remaining good hours to insult a neurosurgeon within earshot, on behalf of me, and I laughed until I couldn't breathe, and then I cried in the bathroom, and then I came back out and ate cake, because that's what you do when it might be the last birthday. 🎂

Simon was magnificent all weekend. Charming as advertised, generous with his attention in front of an audience, disciplined after — never calling, never asking about my day, treating the whole arrangement like the closed contract it was. He asked my aunts questions and remembered their answers. He let my uncle lecture him about interest rates for eleven minutes without checking his watch once, which is more patience than Oliver ever mustered at this same table across ten years. He put his hand on the back of my grandmother's chair during dinner and made her laugh twice, and each time I felt ten years of weight leave my shoulders, because for one weekend nobody in that room pitied Jamie Collins. They looked at me with something far more useful. Curiosity. Envy, even. 😈

And I hated how much it fed me. That's the confession. Six months of disappearing off the face of the earth — coming in early, leaving late, eating at my desk, becoming the precision machine again so people would forget my name — and here I was, drunk on being envied by women who'd brought casseroles to my pity. If that's what healing looks like from the inside, it looks a lot like sin. 🥂

Vanessa tried the soft voice on me over dessert. Sweetheart, we never meant — and Simon didn't raise his voice or threaten anything. He just put his hand on mine, in full view of the table, and asked my grandmother about the roses, and my cousin disappeared out of the conversation entirely. It was the closest thing to revenge I've ever been handed and it cost me nothing but a lie.

Oliver lasted until the coffee. He came over with his jaw set, ready to be the reasonable ex, the man who wanted me to be happy, and he got to say approximately four words before Simon turned those blue eyes on him and introduced himself in the flat, courteous tone that has ended acquisitions. My ex-fiancé walked away holding his own mug like a man who'd just been told he wasn't in the deal anymore. Ten years and he couldn't survive ninety seconds of a stranger's politeness. Which told me everything about what I'd almost lost, delivered three days before it mattered.

Which is when I learned the real danger of borrowing a man like Simon Hart.

Not the pity. The pity was gone, harvested, delivered somewhere else. The danger was that on Sunday night, standing on the porch while everyone pretended to say goodbye inside, my grandmother pressed my hand and said quietly, "You look less sad than you did at Christmas. Don't waste that on a costume."

Don't waste that on a costume.

Eighty-seven years of marriage advice compressed into seven words, aimed directly at the clause we'd written to protect ourselves. Absolutely zero feelings. No-strings s*x. No jealousy. No expectations. Just s*x. It was supposed to be simple. Two events. Some convincing touching.

And it worked perfectly. Right up until everything went completely off the rails. 🌪️

Because Monday morning I came back to the office early, before anyone could look at me, and found a handkerchief embroidered S.H. in my drawer that I had not returned, and I realized I'd spent the entire birthday weekend watching my own boss perform devotion and cataloguing which parts of it felt real. And my phone buzzed with a message from him about the Cavellier amendment, and I read past the amendment three times looking for something that wasn't there, and there it was: the first crack in a contract neither of us had broken yet.

He needed a serious girlfriend to prove New York he'd settled down. I needed armor for a funeral that hadn't happened yet.

Neither of us mentioned that my grandmother's question had an answer I didn't want to write down: if the costume stops feeling like the costume, who's actually pretending? 💔
📔Continue reading 👇
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✨Download the MoboReader app.
👉copy the code：294YML and search it.

Sweetheart Comic Series

10/22/2026

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