Classroom Of The Elite 2nd Year Mga Nobela at Kwento

My mom has been brainwashing me with her "quid pro quo" rule. Apparently, I must work hard in earning money just to get whatever I want. A round of doing the dishes earns me 50 cents. Mopping the floor once grants me one dollar. If I get a full score in my exams, that'll be five dollars. In order to buy a pair of white sneakers that I had had my eye on for a long time, I spent three months picking up trash from the streets. I lived like a maid who was paid on one-time services in this home. When I was a high school senior, I fainted during my homeroom period due to long periods of malnutrition. Even though my doctor suggested to my mom to pay attention to my nutrient intake, she began calculating the costs in front of my sick bed instead. "Your hospitalization costs 300 dollars. On top of that, you have a 200-dollar medical bill to settle. All of these costs will be reflected on your wedding gifts in the future, Emily." But when I turned my head, I saw a student sitting on the bed being fed chicken noodle soup by her own mother. Said mother was so heartbroken by her daughter's illness that she kept shedding tears as well. At that moment, my outlook on the world, that I had been maintaining for 18 long years, finally crumbled into dust. It turned out that not all children needed to work hard just to feel their parents' love. After getting discharged from the hospital and returning home, I finally sobered up the moment I noticed the sneakers that my younger brother, Arnold Baird, wore that cost several thousands of dollars. Then, I tore the family portrait into pieces and didn't hesitate to fill in the university that was located the furthest from home when it was time for me to submit my post-graduation details. Ten years later, my mom calls me on the phone. She starts crying to me how Arnold has swindled her out of her pension. Apparently, he's even sold the house just so he can elope with his girlfriend. Not only is my mom alone now, but she doesn't have a place to stay as well. I just smile as I throw her a piece of rag. "You want to live with me, huh? No problem. You'll earn 50 cents for every window you wipe. You can earn your rent like this."

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked finally. “What I should have done a long time ago,” I replied, not turning around. “Leaving you.” My hand closed around the door handle. “Not with my child.” --- Married off to him to settle a debt that was never mine, I was nothing more than a contract… a means to an end. An heir. That was all Adrian Blackwood ever wanted from me. Not my love. Not my heart. Not me. But still… I gave it to him anyway. Year after year, I loved a man who never once looked at me the way I looked at him. And when my time was up, when the contract ended and no child tied me to him, I walked away. Until fate played its cruel joke. Because just when I finally left him behind, I found out I was carrying his child. Now the man who never wanted me… refuses to let me go.

For three years, she was just his transparent, obedient wife. He never knew that the girl who saved him from the raging ocean—and gave up her Olympic dream to marry him—was the very woman he just divorced.

My roommates booked a New Year's Eve light show table—five hundred per person—and started urging me in the group chat to transfer the money. I quietly sent a screenshot of my account balance. "You guys go ahead," I wrote. "I haven't even scraped together my tuition yet." They replied with a string of mocking "haha"s. Our dorm leader, Giselle Murdoch, even posted on her social media with the caption: [The first step to crossing class boundaries is distancing yourself from people who kill the mood.] Just after midnight, they sent me a photo from the light show and said, "Too bad you're not here." I frowned, confused, when my counselor's call cut in—her voice tight with urgency. "Did you invite your roommates to the light show? The organizers said they never even checked in! They're missing!"

My roommates have booked booth seats at the New Year Countdown Light Show at the price of five thousand dollars per ticket. Soon, they begin urging me to transfer them my share of the payment on the group chat. I just send them a screenshot of the remaining balance in my bank account. "You guys have fun. I'm still saving up for my college tuition fees." Everyone just spams me with laughing messages instead. One of my roommates, Zane Lawson, even uploads a screenshot of our conversation to his social media feed together with a caption that says, "The first step of ascending to the next tier in social hierarchy is to stay away from party poopers like this." But as soon as 12:00 am is over, my roommates send me a photo of the light show. "It's such a shame that you aren't here." I'm still confused by the photo when I receive a phone call from the counselor, who sounds very anxious over the phone. "Did you buy tickets for your roommates to the light show? The organizers claimed that they never checked in at the entrance! Now, they've gone missing!"

At the end of the year, I went to the spa and discovered a stranger had been using my VIP card. When I logged into my personal profile, the last three treatment records were not under my name. The preference section listed specific details about someone else. She was allergic to rose essential oil, preferred lavender, and her heating pad temperature could not exceed 108 degrees Fahrenheit. Her menstrual cycle fell around the 15th of each month, so no waist or abdomen treatments during that time. I stared at the screen, my palms turning cold. Only my husband, Zachary White, knew this password. At the time, he said he needed it to check the balance and renew my membership. I scrolled down and found a system note at the bottom: [Birthday treatment reserved for December 30, prepared according to Ms. Anderson's preferences.] Today was December 30. My phone vibrated. Zachary had sent a message: [Working late tonight. Won't be home.] Familiar laughter drifted from the hallway. Through the glass door, I watched Zachary walk into the adjacent room with his arm around a woman, the beautician hurrying forward to greet them. "Mr. White, we have Ms. Anderson's birthday treatment ready, just as you requested."

When I'm washing Julian White's pants, I pull out a management fee invoice from one of the pockets. Surprisingly enough, the address is the unit on the floor above my apartment. The thing is, Julian's name is put down as the apartment owner. As I clutch the invoice, I feel my blood turning into ice. Suddenly, I recall the way Julian kept telling me he had overtime shifts to pull over the past six months. Because of that, he often came home past midnight. There were a few times when I realized that his car was still parked in its designated parking slot of the apartment block despite the fact that he had already "gone out". When I asked Julian for the reason, he answered, "The gas prices are very high right now. Taking the subway is more convenient, not to mention I get to save more money for our family's expenses." I used to feel happy about the fact that Julian cared so much about our family. But now, I finally realize that his so-called overtime shifts are just excuses for him to spend time in the unit upstairs. At that moment, I hear the sounds of a key being inserted into the front door's lock. Julian is home. When he notices the invoice in my hand, he takes it from me casually. "Maybe the staff placed it in the wrong mailbox." I nod with a smile. "It's nothing. I'm going to take out the trash first." After leaving the apartment, I head upstairs right away. Once I knock on the door, the woman who came to open the door for me is heavily pregnant. It seems that she's about to give birth.

On the day of the World Rally Championship finals, I pressed the accelerator to the floor, ready for the final dash. The next moment, the engine exploded in a deafening roar, and thick smoke instantly filled the cockpit. Flames spread toward the fuel tank. I yanked at the door, desperate to jump out, but the handle wouldn’t budge, and the brakes felt welded in place. In that instant of despair, my husband’s voice came through the comms. “Attention, all teams, no need to rescue her. My wife is the Iron Racer! “For today’s live broadcast challenge, let’s see if she can drive this burning car across the finish line!” His co-commentator, recently recruited onto the team, chimed in with excitement. “Thomas, the sponsor just confirmed! As long as Jane holds on to the end, they’ll increase investment. I can get a permanent spot!” I understood instantly then that the husband on the commentary platform I had supported for years was using my life to pave the way for his mistress. Smoke clawed at my throat. However, I forced down the dizziness and begged, “For the sake of all our years together…” Only for him to cut me off with irritation. “Save your energy for driving. You’re skilled. Just hold on a little longer. Mandy’s promotion depends entirely on you.” The cockpit had become an inferno; my skin searing with every second. I gripped the blistering wheel, steering through the smoke for the last time. This time, my finish line was the commentary platform where the two of them were huddled together.

"Sign the contract, or lose everything." I stared at the papers that would seal my fate—a three-year marriage to Julian Blackwood, the ruthless billionaire they call the Ice King. My family didn't ask. They demanded. My father's company was drowning, my stepsister's engagement had exploded, and I was the replacement bride they could sacrifice. Just another transaction. Julian made it clear on our wedding day: "Don't expect affection. Don't expect companionship. Certainly don't expect love." He refused to kiss me at the altar. He gave me a bedroom down the hall and told me to stay out of his way. I was Mrs. Blackwood in name only—a contract, a convenience, a means to an end. I accepted it. I had survived twelve years of abuse in my own home. I could survive three years of indifference in his. But then Nate, Julian's best friend, showed me kindness, and suddenly my cold husband became possessive. When my sister attacked me, he became protective. Now the man who promised me nothing is fighting his own father to keep me. The marriage that was supposed to be fake is becoming terrifyingly real and the secrets about my mother's death are threatening to destroy everything. They said Julian Blackwood destroys everything he touches. What they didn't tell me... is that sometimes destruction is exactly what you need to be reborn. With a pregnancy involved, how was I going to end this three-year marriage peacefully?

While collecting samples in Antarctica, I was caught in a blizzard. When I finally made it back to the vehicle, I found the fuel tank drained and my thermal suit shredded into rags. I screamed for help, but laughter crackled through the communicator. It was the voice of my husband's childhood sweetheart. "No need to rescue her, you guys! Sophie's got the world record for low-temperature endurance! "Today, let's see if she can hike across the ice in a T-shirt, all on livestream!" Then came my husband's doting voice. "Baby, I've already spoken to the manager. If she pulls this off, you'll get your spot in next month's expedition!" That was when I understood. My husband had turned me into a stepping stone for her future. As I shivered violently in the cold, I begged, "Please, Zachary. After all our years of marriage…" Before I could finish, he cut me off coldly. “Save your body heat and keep walking. Luna's future depends on you. "You've got the stamina anyway, so just hold on for another five kilometers!" At that moment, my heart froze solid. If they wanted me dead, then I would make sure they froze at the base instead. With trembling hands, I raised the axe, aiming it directly at the base's heating pipes.