Yellow Face Summary Novels & Stories

My husband, Lucas Gabriel, and I were on our way to sell paintings when we got robbed. I used all my strength to fight off the robbers. I wanted to keep Lucas’s hands safe so that he could keep painting. However, he failed to escape. He threw his paintings on the ground and yelled at me, “This is all your fault, Aria! “If I had married Chloe instead of you, I would be the leader of the Lenza Group in Ros Aegeles by now! I wouldn’t be some poor, helpless painter!” Right before the robbers killed me, I finally realized that he never got over his childhood sweetheart, Chloe Lionel. That was why he never wanted to have children with me while we were married. When I opened my eyes again, we had both returned to a time before our marriage. This time, we went our separate ways. I cut ties with him and left Ros Angeles to focus on medical research. Seven years later, I returned. Lucas was already the boss of Cosa. He had Chloe in his arms and mocked me. “I know you’ve loved me in both lives, but did you really have to stay single for me?” I ignored him and held my son’s hand. He lost it. His eyes turned red with anger as he demanded, “Whose child is that?! Didn’t you say you would only have my children?!”

My dormmate, Summer Lodge, always uses heavy-duty electrical appliances to cook in our dorm. I kindly remind her that it's a fire hazard and that she'll get a demerit if the college finds her out, but she snaps at me and tells me to mind my own business. One day, her oven bursts into flames and burns one of our dormmates—the daughter of an affluent family—to death. When the college investigates the matter to apportion the blame, Summer and another dormmate push the blame on me. I'm expelled and cyberbullied. My dead dormmate's boyfriend even comes after me for revenge. He shoves me and my family into the furnace at a crematorium. When I open my eyes again, I'm back to the day when Summer decides to make a meal with the oven.

Half a year after our divorce, my ex-husband became a trending topic online. His current wife, who had just given birth, jumped off a building. When she jumped, she was clutching a printed, 98-page copy of the "Cloves Family Code of Conduct." The reason for her suicide? She couldn’t buy discounted groceries online. A reporter came to interview me and asked, "Excuse me, were you also given the same family rules?"

Nathan Brooks had been tangled up with his secretary for far too long. All I did was ask one simple question. “Has Chloe Bennett resigned yet?” That was enough to make him hurl the glass in his hand at me. “You jealous, bitter woman,” he snapped. “Because of your jealousy, you drove Chloe away. “I told you I’m not divorcing you, Emily. Isn’t that enough for you?” I said nothing. I only looked down at the cut on my arm, where the shattered glass had sliced through my skin, then quietly bent down and picked up the broken pieces. What Nathan didn’t know was that I had already drawn up the divorce papers.

Pauline Ashby, my senior homeroom teacher, is extremely childish. She tends to decorate everything she owns in a childish style. Even the exam admission tickets she has prepared for our SATs are printed on pink paper. On top of that, she even pastes many cartoon stickers on them. "Pink is a great color! This color represents cute little girls like me! Just use these admission tickets when you're about to enter the exam venue! I'm very sure you'll definitely score top marks in the exam!" Upon realizing that Pauline is about to screw everyone over, I quickly call the head teacher. He rushes over and gives Pauline a good scolding before giving us the actual tickets, allowing us entry to the exam venue. Everyone in class completes their SATs at their own pace. In fact, my childhood friend, Caelum Thornley, and I even get into prestigious colleges thanks to our scores. But on the day our scores are announced, Pauline ascends to the rooftop while bawling like a baby. "I just wanted everyone to attend the entrance exam with cute pink admission tickets because the color can boost their mood! Why must Sienna tattle on me? "I did so much research just to pick out the prettiest shade of pink for everyone! I gave it my all to help everyone in the SATs!" As Pauline wipes her tears away with her sleeve, she accidentally steps on the hem of her long skirt, causing her to fall down the building. The next day, Caelum leads the entire class in tying me up and kidnapping me to the summit of a mountain, where they push me off the cliff. As such, all of my bones are shattered, and I die a painful death. "This is your fault for targeting Ms. Ashby! So what if we love using the pink admission tickets?" When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the moment Pauline digs out the pink admission tickets. This time, I choose to keep my mouth shut.

I went to exactly one party in my new, wealthy neighborhood. Then my neighbor Brenda sued me. In court, she held her bruised and battered daughter, Tiffany. She accused my son of rape. Mid-hearing, Tiffany tugged her collar down. Red marks circled her neck. "He tried to rip my pants off," she sobbed. "He tried to force himself on me. I fought back. So he beat me. He ruined my face!" Outside the courthouse, protesters held up signs, calling my son a piece of trash, a spoiled rich kid. Online, a photoshopped memorial of me went viral. The caption read: The unfit mother should die with her son. My company’s stock plummeted. But I just sat there. Stone-faced. I asked for my son, Cooper, to be brought in. The courtroom doors opened. Cooper walked in. Everyone froze.

As the only expert in the world capable of rescue dives below 3,000 feet, I received a once-in-a-lifetime salvage contract worth tens of millions of dollars. I had dived in those same waters over a decade ago. My son's research submersible had been damaged on the ocean floor. After his oxygen ran out, he suffocated in the dark. The grief nearly destroyed me. My husband, Griffin Lattimer, held me through it, staying by my side through countless miserable nights. I found out later that he had personally redirected the only rescue vessel capable of reaching the depths our son was at to save his childhood friend's daughter. That girl had merely choked on a mouthful of water in the shallows. I divorced Griffin and threw myself into deep-sea salvage like a woman possessed, diving over and over until I knew the undercurrents of those waters better than I knew my own home. I never wanted another child to die the way mine did. Today brought the same stretch of ocean, the same crushed hull, the same depleted oxygen, and the same impossible odds. When I opened the client's file, I went completely still. I recognized the name and face inside instantly. I would never forget either of them for as long as I lived. I smiled and slid the folder back across the table to my partner. "I can't take this one."

For the past three months, I've slept only three hours every day just so my team and I can create an app. Thanks to our hard work, the app goes absolutely viral to the point we've garnered over 100 million registered users on the first week of its launch. At the afterparty, my wife, Stacie Woodward, announces that her godbrother, Tory Frost, who's the PR manager, will be the one receiving the million-dollar bonus. She then tosses me a few 50% discount coupons that can be used in shopping malls as my bonus. "You're just a code monkey—why do you need that much money anyway? You can have these discount coupons. Use them on anything you want. At least buy some nice clothes for yourself. Don't go around wearing these rags. You'll just end up humiliating me more." I plead to her in a low tone, "Have you gone crazy, Stacie? My dad needs the money for the best medication in order to save his life! Can you please stop joking around?" But Stacie clings to Toby's arm, looking high and mighty. "Your dad's dying, isn't he? He might as well stop wasting the public resources! I can always choose him a better grave and hold a nice funeral for him when his time comes!" As I look at Stacie's smug face, I just smile at her instead of getting mad at her. She must have forgotten that the app's core algorithm and the user growth model are built using my private, undisclosed technology stack. That means the copyright is mine and has nothing to do with the company. I just smile while nodding at Stacie. That night, I activate the technology stack's self-destruct and migration protocols.

I have a rule that I stick to at all times. Every year, I will only host three livestreams. I accept and welcome everyone who joins my livestream. I don't care about the variety of requests made. On top of that, I don't charge anyone anything. As long as I agree to one's request, I'll definitely fulfill it no matter what they want. For the past three years, I've stuck to this rule, and I've never broken it. Because of that, every time my livestream starts, hundreds of thousands of viewers will instantly join my livestream. It's the third livestream this time, marking it the final livestream of the year. As soon as I begin the livestream, numerous comments begin filling up the comment section. The user who's lucky enough to score a chance to communicate with me on my livestream is a woman in her 40s. Her sideburns have already gone gray, and her eyes are sunken. She can be seen holding up a child's photo. "Connor, my son has gone missing for 20 years. Please help me find him. I'll sell my house. Heck, I'll do anything you say!" The comment section instantly goes wild. "Oh my god! What a pitiful mother!" "She's willing to sell everything she has just to find her child! Connor, you must help her!" "If you refuse to help this woman, who else are you going to help then, Connor?" I stare at the woman's face for three long seconds. That's when I feel an inexplicable chill running down my spine. Without hesitation, I close off the communication portal from the woman. "I refuse."

My husband promised we would spend Thanksgiving with my parents this year. Right before we left, he looked down at his phone and frowned. "Damn it. I forgot to change the delivery address again. Your parents' gift basket went to Cassia's place." I stood in the entryway with my fingers frozen around my scarf. For three years of marriage, Roman DeLuca had never removed Cassia Vail's address from his shopping apps. Whenever I asked him why, he always said the same thing: "Cassia and I grew up together. She’s basically family." The Italian espresso machine I wanted went to her apartment. He said her old machine had broken anyway. The sapphire bracelet for our wedding anniversary was signed for by her. He said asking for it back after she opened it would look petty. The sunflowers and baby's breath he promised me on Valentine's Day ended up in her hands. He said she had already put them in a vase, and he couldn't give me secondhand flowers. This time, I had reminded him for two weeks. The Thanksgiving basket had a low-sugar pumpkin pie, nut-free cookies, and a custom low-sodium turkey roll for my father. I had chosen every item myself. It still went to Cassia. I kept my voice steady. "Drive over and get it back." Roman's face darkened. "She already signed for it. What do you want me to do? We'll pick up wine and pastries on the way. Same thing." "It isn't the same. Get it back." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elena, can you stop turning every little thing into a family trial? No one makes things awkward like you do." Every time something meant for me ended up with his childhood sweetheart, I asked him to get it back. Every time, I got some version of the same answer. I stopped arguing and watched him slam the door behind him. A few minutes later, I wiped my tears and texted my attorney. [Happy Thanksgiving. Please draft a divorce agreement for me. Thank you.]