“You humiliated me in front of the board, Natalie!” my billionaire husband screamed after striking me to the floor of the glass-dome gala while I clutched my pregnant belly, unaware that my Wall Street mogul father was already using his satellite phone to incinerate his entire eight-hundred-million-dollar empire within four short hours.

def count_words(text):
    return len(text.split())

# Let's draft Part 1, Pinned Comment, Part 2, Part 3 and test word counts.

part1_draft = """
Part 1

The crack of his hand against my cheek echoed like a gunshot through the marble hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

My head snapped sideways. Pain radiated across my face, blinding and sharp, as my knees buckled. I hit the polished floor, my hands instinctively shielding my rounded six-month belly. Around us, five hundred elite guests froze, their champagne glasses suspended in mid-air, while hundreds of camera flashes exploded like strobe lights in the dim gala hall.

My name is Natalie Thornton Ashford, and five minutes ago, I thought I was attending New York’s premier tech gala to celebrate my husband’s crowning business achievement. Instead, I was bleeding on national television.

"Keep your mouth shut, Natalie!" Marcus sneered down at me, his tuxedo immaculate, his face twisted in venom. Standing right behind him, clutching his arm with manicured nails, was twenty-six-year-old Amanda Pierce—his head of marketing, and as I had just publicly exposed, his secret mistress. "You humiliated me in front of the entire board! You mean nothing to this company, and you mean nothing to me!"

My baby kicked violently inside me. Panic seized my chest—not for myself, but for the tiny life fighting for survival beneath my trembling hands. I tried to push myself up, but the sheer shock rendered my limbs useless. Whispers erupted like a wildfire across the room. Photographers shoved past security, eager to capture the downfall of the tech industry's golden couple. 

Marcus raised a finger, stepping closer with a predatory glare. "If you breathe a word of this to the press, I’ll strip you of every cent in our pre-nup. You'll leave with nothing."

Then, a heavy, deliberate footsteps cut through the chaotic crowd. 

The room went dead silent. The sea of billionaires and executives parted instantly as a towering figure stepped into the light. It was my father, Robert Thornton—the cold, ruthless titan of Wall Street whose name alone made Fortune 500 CEOs tremble. 

He didn't look at Marcus. He knelt beside me, his tailored coat touching the floor, his eyes filled with a terrifying, icy rage I had never seen in my entire life. 

"Dad..." I sobbed, clutching his sleeve. 

Robert gently kissed my forehead, then stood up, pulling a black satellite phone from his jacket. He turned to Marcus, his voice quiet, calm, and utterly lethal. 

"You just destroyed yourself, Marcus," my father whispered. "Watch."

He pressed speed dial.
"""

print("Part 1 word count:", len(part1_draft.split()))

Part 1 word count: 402

pinned_comment_draft = """When a arrogant billionaire strikes his pregnant wife in front of New York high society, he thinks he’s invincible. He has no idea whose daughter he just touched—or how fast an $800 million empire can burn to the ground. The rest of the story is below 👇"""

print("Pinned Comment word count:", len(pinned_comment_draft.split()))

Pinned Comment word count: 47

part2_draft = """
Part 2

Marcus let out a harsh, arrogant laugh. "What are you going to do, old man? Call the cops? I own the tech sector!"

My father ignored him. He brought the phone to his ear, his voice deadly calm. "Call One: Liquidate all Thornton Capital holdings in Ashford Technologies. Every share. Now." He paused two seconds. "Call Two: Contact the board at JPMorgan and Citi. Freeze every commercial credit line issued to Ashford Tech before the Tokyo market opens in twenty minutes."

Marcus’s smirk wavered slightly as my father tapped the screen again. "Call Three: Initiate a full public short position on Ashford stock. Release the audit."

Within four hours, Marcus’s eight-hundred-million-dollar empire was reduced to ash. By midnight, panic spread through Wall Street as Ashford Tech stock plummeted eighty-five percent. But while his wealth was vaporizing, my world was revolving around a stark hospital room at Mount Sinai.

"The fetal heart rate is strong, Natalie," the doctor reassured me, adjusting the ultrasound monitor. "Your baby girl is a fighter."

Tears of pure relief spilled down my cheeks. Sitting beside my bed were Violet Harper, my best friend and brilliant legal counsel, alongside James Whitmore, my family’s veteran attorney. As I held the sonogram picture, my fear hardened into something unbreakable: absolute resolve. I wasn't just divorcing Marcus; I was going to strip away every shadow he hid behind.

We immediately filed for an emergency restraining order and launched a forensic audit into our marital assets. What we uncovered was horrifying. Marcus hadn't just been unfaithful; he was a calculated predator. Forensic accountants discovered he had embezzled eight point three million dollars from our joint marital funds, channeling the money through shell corporations into offshore accounts. Furthermore, the prenup he had coerced me into signing six years ago contained forged clauses designed to strip me of my inheritance.

As Violet and I dug deeper, we tracked down women from Marcus's past—Sarah Mitchell, Melissa Crawford, and Jennifer Hawkins. They were former employees whose careers and lives he had systematically destroyed when they refused his advances. Marcus wasn't a visionary CEO; he was a serial abuser who had maintained at least twelve illicit affairs throughout our marriage.

Just as we prepared our civil lawsuit, a stunning twist shattered the case wide open.

A week later, Violet's office phone rang. The caller was none other than Amanda Pierce, the young mistress Marcus had protected at the gala. 

When Amanda walked into our conference room, she wasn't the arrogant home-wrecker from the gala. She was trembling, terrified, and pale. She slid an encrypted flash drive across the table toward me.

"Marcus is setting me up," Amanda confessed, her voice shaking violently. "He told me those offshore accounts were in my name for tax purposes. But yesterday, I found emails showing he arranged for me to take the full fall for the embezzled eight point three million dollars if federal regulators ever investigated! He was going to send me to prison!"

Amanda handed over everything: encrypted text messages, wire transfer receipts, and recorded phone calls where Marcus explicitly detailed his illegal financial schemes and his plans to ruin my family. She had formally agreed to flip on Marcus and cooperate fully with the District Attorney.

Armed with Amanda's damning evidence and testimonies from Marcus's past victims, NYPD detectives and federal agents cornered Marcus at his defense attorney's Manhattan office. As handcuffs clicked around his wrists, Marcus caught sight of me standing in the hallway alongside Violet and District Attorney investigators.

"You ruined me, Natalie!" Marcus screamed, thrashing wildly against the officers. "You think you've won? You'll never see a dime, and I'll make sure you pay for this!"

He was dragged away facing fifteen felony counts, but as the courtroom battle loomed, I knew a man as ruthless as Marcus would not go down without one final, desperate strike.

If you've read this far, don't hesitate to leave a like and comment before reading part 3. It makes us as happy as reading a complete story! Thank you. 👍❤️
"""

print("Part 2 word count:", len(part2_draft.split()))
print("Part 2 line breaks:", part2_draft.count('\n'))

Part 2 word count: 675
Part 2 line breaks: 36

part3_draft = """
Part 3

The trial of Marcus Ashford became the highest-profile financial and criminal prosecution in New York history. 

In a desperate bid to evade justice, Marcus tried every trick in the book. His legal team attempted to discredit Amanda’s testimony, claim the embezzled funds were legitimate corporate bonuses, and even leaked smear stories about my father. But the wall of evidence we built was impenetrable. 

Standing on the witness stand at the Southern District Court of New York, I looked Marcus directly in the eyes. I didn't tremble. I spoke clearly, detailing the years of psychological manipulation, the financial theft, and the violent attack at the Metropolitan Museum. Following my testimony, Sarah, Melissa, and Jennifer took the stand, their brave voices laying bare a decade-long pattern of systemic abuse and career destruction.

When the prosecutor presented Amanda’s audio recordings alongside the forensic paper trail showing eight point three million dollars stolen from our joint assets, Marcus’s defense shattered. Realizing a jury would convict him on every count, Marcus struck a plea deal at the eleventh hour.

The federal judge showed no leniency. He sentenced Marcus Ashford to eight years in federal prison with no option for early parole, ordering him to pay eight point three million dollars in full restitution to me, alongside a two-million-dollar criminal fine. As the bailiffs cuffed him and led him away in an orange jumpsuit, Marcus looked back at me one last time—broken, stripped of his fortune, his reputation, and his freedom.

Three months after the verdict, in the quiet warmth of a spring morning, I gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl. I named her Grace Hope Thornton. Holding her tiny hand in the delivery room, with my father standing proudly beside us, I wept tears of clean, unburdened joy. She was my victory, my light after the darkest storm.

I used the full eight point three million dollars restored from Marcus, along with my own capital, to create something meaningful. I founded Thornton Ventures, a venture capital firm dedicated exclusively to funding and empowering female-led technology startups. I wanted to ensure that no ambitious woman would ever have her dreams crushed by predatory men like Marcus. 

Alongside my firm, I established the Safe Harbor Foundation. Over the next few years, the foundation provided legal aid, emergency housing, and financial independence resources to more than three thousand women escaping domestic violence. Empowering others became the ultimate healing for my own scars.

Life had another unexpected gift in store for me. While serving as a guest lecturer for a legal ethics seminar at Columbia University, I met Dr. Ben Winters, a brilliant professor of constitutional law. Ben was kind, humble, and fiercely genuine—the complete opposite of the toxic world I had left behind. He didn't care about my family's wealth or my past tabloid headlines; he simply loved me for who I was. 

Slowly, gently, Ben earned my trust and adored Grace as if she were his own daughter. Five years after that fateful night at the Met Gala, Ben and I were married in a quiet, sunlit ceremony surrounded by our closest family and friends. 

Today, as I stand on the terrace of our home watching Ben teach six-year-old Grace how to ride her bicycle, I rest my hand on my stomach, where a tiny, healthy baby boy is kicking softly. Looking back, the night Marcus tried to destroy me didn't mark my end—it was the painful, powerful beginning of my true life.

What do you think of this story? Please leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments. Your support means a lot to us and inspires us to keep writing more meaningful and powerful stories. Thank you! 👍❤️
"""

print("Part 3 word count:", len(part3_draft.split()))
print("Part 3 line breaks:", part3_draft.count('\n'))

Part 3 word count: 619
Part 3 line breaks: 26

part1_text = """Part 1

The crack of his hand against my cheek echoed like a gunshot through the marble hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

My head snapped sideways. Pain radiated across my face, blinding and sharp, as my knees buckled. I hit the polished floor, my hands instinctively shielding my rounded six-month belly. Around us, five hundred elite guests froze, their champagne glasses suspended in mid-air, while hundreds of camera flashes exploded like strobe lights in the dim gala hall.

My name is Natalie Thornton Ashford, and five minutes ago, I thought I was attending New York’s premier tech gala to celebrate my husband’s crowning business achievement. Instead, I was bleeding on national television.

"Keep your mouth shut, Natalie!" Marcus sneered down at me, his tuxedo immaculate, his face twisted in venom. Standing right behind him, clutching his arm with manicured nails, was twenty-six-year-old Amanda Pierce—his head of marketing, and as I had just publicly exposed, his secret mistress. "You humiliated me in front of the entire board! You mean nothing to this company, and you mean nothing to me!"

My baby kicked violently inside me. Panic seized my chest—not for myself, but for the tiny life fighting for survival beneath my trembling hands. I tried to push myself up, but the sheer shock rendered my limbs useless. Whispers erupted like a wildfire across the room. Photographers shoved past security, eager to capture the downfall of the tech industry's golden couple.

Marcus raised a finger, stepping closer with a predatory glare. "If you breathe a word of this to the press, I’ll strip you of every cent in our pre-nup. You'll leave with nothing."

Then, heavy, deliberate footsteps cut through the chaotic crowd.

The room went dead silent. The sea of billionaires and executives parted instantly as a towering figure stepped into the light. It was my father, Robert Thornton—the cold, ruthless titan of Wall Street whose name alone made Fortune 500 CEOs tremble.

He didn't look at Marcus. He knelt beside me, his tailored coat touching the floor, his eyes filled with a terrifying, icy rage I had never seen in my entire life.

"Dad..." I sobbed, clutching his sleeve.

Robert gently kissed my forehead, then stood up, pulling a black satellite phone from his jacket. He turned to Marcus, his voice quiet, calm, and utterly lethal.

"You just destroyed yourself, Marcus," my father whispered. "Watch."

He pressed speed dial."""

pinned_comment_text = """When an arrogant billionaire strikes his pregnant wife in front of New York high society, he thinks he’s invincible. He has no idea whose daughter he just touched—or how fast an $800 million empire can burn to the ground. The rest of the story is below 👇"""

part2_text = """Part 2

Marcus let out a harsh, arrogant laugh. "What are you going to do, old man? Call the cops? I own the tech sector!"

My father ignored him. He brought the phone to his ear, his voice deadly calm. "Call One: Liquidate all Thornton Capital holdings in Ashford Technologies. Every share. Now." He paused two seconds. "Call Two: Contact the board at JPMorgan and Citi. Freeze every commercial credit line issued to Ashford Tech before the Tokyo market opens in twenty minutes."

Marcus’s smirk wavered slightly as my father tapped the screen again. "Call Three: Initiate a full public short position on Ashford stock. Release the audit."

Within four hours, Marcus’s eight-hundred-million-dollar empire was reduced to ash. By midnight, panic spread through Wall Street as Ashford Tech stock plummeted eighty-five percent. But while his wealth was vaporizing, my world was revolving around a stark hospital room at Mount Sinai.

"The fetal heart rate is strong, Natalie," the doctor reassured me, adjusting the ultrasound monitor. "Your baby girl is a fighter."

Tears of pure relief spilled down my cheeks. Sitting beside my bed were Violet Harper, my best friend and brilliant legal counsel, alongside James Whitmore, my family’s veteran attorney. As I held the sonogram picture, my fear hardened into something unbreakable: absolute resolve. I wasn't just divorcing Marcus; I was going to strip away every shadow he hid behind.

We immediately filed for an emergency restraining order and launched a forensic audit into our marital assets. What we uncovered was horrifying. Marcus hadn't just been unfaithful; he was a calculated predator. Forensic accountants discovered he had embezzled eight point three million dollars from our joint marital funds, channeling the money through shell corporations into offshore accounts. Furthermore, the prenup he had coerced me into signing six years ago contained forged clauses designed to strip me of my inheritance.

As Violet and I dug deeper, we tracked down women from Marcus's past—Sarah Mitchell, Melissa Crawford, and Jennifer Hawkins. They were former employees whose careers and lives he had systematically destroyed when they refused his advances. Marcus wasn't a visionary CEO; he was a serial abuser who had maintained at least twelve illicit affairs throughout our marriage.

Just as we prepared our civil lawsuit, a stunning twist shattered the case wide open.

A week later, Violet's office phone rang. The caller was none other than Amanda Pierce, the young mistress Marcus had protected at the gala.

When Amanda walked into our conference room, she wasn't the arrogant home-wrecker from the gala. She was trembling, terrified, and pale. She slid an encrypted flash drive across the table toward me.

"Marcus is setting me up," Amanda confessed, her voice shaking violently. "He told me those offshore accounts were in my name for tax purposes. But yesterday, I found emails showing he arranged for me to take the full fall for the embezzled eight point three million dollars if federal regulators ever investigated! He was going to send me to prison!"

Amanda handed over everything: encrypted text messages, wire transfer receipts, and recorded phone calls where Marcus explicitly detailed his illegal financial schemes and his plans to ruin my family. She had formally agreed to flip on Marcus and cooperate fully with the District Attorney.

Armed with Amanda's damning evidence and testimonies from Marcus's past victims, NYPD detectives and federal agents cornered Marcus at his defense attorney's Manhattan office. As handcuffs clicked around his wrists, Marcus caught sight of me standing in the hallway alongside Violet and District Attorney investigators.

"You ruined me, Natalie!" Marcus screamed, thrashing wildly against the officers. "You think you've won? You'll never see a dime, and I'll make sure you pay for this!"

He was dragged away facing fifteen felony counts, but as the courtroom battle loomed, I knew a man as ruthless as Marcus would not go down without one final, desperate strike.

If you've read this far, don't hesitate to leave a like and comment before reading part 3. It makes us as happy as reading a complete story! Thank you. 👍❤️"""

part3_text = """Part 3

The criminal trial of Marcus Ashford became the highest-profile financial and personal scandal in modern New York history. 

In a desperate bid to evade justice, Marcus tried every deceitful tactic imaginable. His legal team attempted to discredit Amanda’s testimony, claim the embezzled funds were legitimate corporate bonuses, and even leaked vicious smear stories about my family to the tabloids. But the wall of evidence we had meticulously assembled was entirely impenetrable. 

Standing on the witness stand inside the crowded courtroom at the Southern District Court of New York, I looked Marcus directly in the eyes. I didn't tremble, nor did I look away. I spoke clearly and calmly, detailing the years of psychological manipulation, the systematic financial theft, and the vicious physical attack at the Metropolitan Museum. Following my testimony, Sarah, Melissa, and Jennifer took the stand, their courageous voices laying bare a decade-long pattern of systemic harassment, corporate intimidation, and personal destruction.

When the prosecutor presented Amanda’s recorded phone calls alongside the forensic audit trail proving eight point three million dollars stolen from our joint marital assets, Marcus’s defense completely collapsed. Realizing that a federal jury would inevitably convict him on every single indictment, Marcus struck a guilty plea at the eleventh hour.

The presiding federal judge showed absolutely no leniency. He sentenced Marcus Ashford to eight full years in federal prison with no option for early parole, ordering him to pay eight point three million dollars in restitution back to me, alongside a two-million-dollar criminal fine. As federal marshals cuffed him and led him out of the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit, Marcus turned to look at me one last time—completely broken, stripped of his fortune, his social standing, and his freedom.

Three months after the verdict, in the quiet warmth of a beautiful spring morning, I gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl. I named her Grace Hope Thornton. Holding her tiny hand in the delivery room, with my father standing proudly beside my bed, I wept tears of clean, unburdened joy. She was my triumph, my ultimate light after navigating the darkest storm of my life.

I used the full eight point three million dollars returned from Marcus, along with my own capital, to create something lasting and impactful. I founded Thornton Ventures, a specialized venture capital firm dedicated exclusively to funding and mentoring female-led technology startups. I was determined to ensure that no ambitious woman would ever have her dreams sabotaged by predatory men like Marcus. 

Alongside the investment firm, I established the Safe Harbor Foundation. Over the next five years, the foundation provided comprehensive legal representation, emergency housing, and financial independence grants to more than three thousand women escaping domestic violence across the nation. Helping others rebuild their lives became the ultimate healing process for my own wounds.

Life had another unexpected blessing in store for me. While serving as a guest speaker for a legal ethics seminar at Columbia University, I met Dr. Ben Winters, a brilliant professor of constitutional law. Ben was deeply kind, humble, and fiercely genuine—the polar opposite of the toxic world I had left behind. He didn't care about my family's immense wealth or my past tabloid headlines; he simply loved me for who I truly was. 

Slowly and gently, Ben earned my trust and adored Grace as if she were his own daughter. Five years after that terrifying night at the Met Gala, Ben and I were married in a quiet, sunlit ceremony overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by our closest family and friends. 

Today, as I stand on the terrace of our home watching Ben teach six-year-old Grace how to ride her bicycle, I gently rest my hand on my belly, where a tiny, healthy baby boy is kicking softly inside me. Looking back, the night Marcus tried to destroy me didn't mark my end—it was the painful, necessary beginning of my true life.

What do you think of this story? Please leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments. Your support means a lot to us and inspires us to keep writing more meaningful and powerful stories. Thank you! 👍❤️"""

print("Part 1 count:", len(part1_text.split()))
print("Pinned comment count:", len(pinned_comment_text.split()))
print("Part 2 count:", len(part2_text.split()))
print("Part 3 count:", len(part3_text.split()))

Part 1 count: 401
Pinned comment count: 47
Part 2 count: 675
Part 3 count: 689

# Verify endings exactly match prompt specifications
assert pinned_comment_text.endswith("The rest of the story is below 👇")
assert part2_text.endswith("If you've read this far, don't hesitate to leave a like and comment before reading part 3. It makes us as happy as reading a complete story! Thank you. 👍❤️")
assert part3_text.endswith("What do you think of this story? Please leave a like and share your thoughts in the comments. Your support means a lot to us and inspires us to keep writing more meaningful and powerful stories. Thank you! 👍❤️")

print("All assertion checks passed successfully!")

All assertion checks passed successfully!