Gaea Uranus
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My Bitter Brew: A CEO's Regret
Gavin For seven years, I poured my life into Artisan Ales, brewing the beer that built our empire, secretly married to its co-founder and CEO, Chloe.
Tonight, at our success party, I expected her to finally announce us, our shared journey, our partnership.
Instead, she introduced a fresh-faced intern, Liam, giving him full credit for my life' s work-my signature IPA-and beaming as he winked at her, publicly erasing me from our story.
My stomach clenched as applause erupted, not for us, but for Chloe and her new "power duo" with Liam.
Later, as she fretted over Liam's fake migraine, Chloe tossed me a cheap, flimsy watch-a pathetic imitation of the expensive one she bought him-an insult that cut deeper than any public slight.
"Don't be dramatic," she sighed, dismissing our secret marriage as an inconvenience, solidifying her betrayal.
How could the woman who promised "us" and believed in my beer, now treat me like an obsolete relic, a disposable part of her ruthless ambition?
The overwhelming feeling wasn't anger, but a hollow, cold emptiness where our shared dreams used to be, replaced by a bitter taste of ash.
As the cheap watch ticked, reminding me of my worth in her eyes, a new, chilling resolve set in: I would not just leave, I would reclaim everything that was truly mine.
Picking up my phone, I dialed the only other person who truly valued my craft, prepared to cut the cord, not just from the company, but from Chloe for good. Fake Amnesia, Real Betrayal
Johan Gorski The call came at 7:05 PM on our tenth wedding anniversary.
My husband, David, was in an accident.
At the hospital, he was awake, but a young woman, his assistant Chloe, was holding his hand, acting like his wife.
When I walked in, he looked at me, a blank stranger' s stare, then asked, "Who are you?"
He laughed when I said I was his wife, then demanded security remove me, while Chloe, smiling, pretended to cry.
It wasn't just memory loss; it was a cruel, targeted erasure.
I tried proof, the marriage certificate, but he pushed it away as "just a piece of paper."
Then Chloe waltzed in with his favorite soup, and he defended her when I confronted her.
"She' s the only one who' s been here for me!" he screamed.
He snarled that I was "exhausted, haggard," compared to Chloe, who was "kind and gentle."
My wedding ring, a symbol of our forever, flew from my hand as he slapped it away, clinking under the bed.
"Don' t come back," he said, turning his back on me to comfort Chloe.
Later, I learned why: he had been having an affair with Chloe, his mother's 65th birthday ruined by his absence and her answering his phone.
My world shattered when Mark Johnson, David's estranged best friend, told me what David said: "The fake amnesia was a stroke of genius, right? A clean break."
My husband had faked a brain injury to throw me away.
A car hit me, sending me to the hospital, and I knew what I had to do.
When Mark came in, I looked at him, my face blank, then asked, "Are you… my husband?" Mummery
Gilbert Cannan This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1919 Excerpt: ...loss of humanity. Henceforth she must deal with realities, leaving him to his painted mummery.... She could understand his frenzy, his fury, his despair. \"That will do, Charles,\" she said very quietly. \"I will see what can be done about Mr. Clott, and whatever happens I will see that you are not harmed.... If you like, you can dine with Verschoyle and me tonight. You can come home with me now, while I dress. I am to meet him at the Carlton and then we are going on to the Opera.\" \"Does Verschoyle know?\" \"He knows that you are you and that I am I---that is all he cares about.... He is a good man. If people must have too much money, he is the right man to have it. He would never let a man down for want of money--if the man was worth it.\" \"Ah!\" said Charles, reassured. This was like the old Clara speaking, but with more assurance, a more certain knowledge and less bewildering intuition and guess-work. A Few weeks later, with Verschoyle and a poor relation of his, a Miss Vibart Withers, for chaperone, Clara left London in a 60 h.p. Fiat, which voraciously ate up the Bath Road at the rate of a mile every minute and a half.... It was good to be out of the thick heat of London, invaded by foreigners and provincials and turned into a city of pleasure and summer-frocks, so that its normal life was submerged, its character hidden. The town became as lazy and drowsy a spectacle as a field of poppies over which danced gay and brilliant butterflies. Very sweet was it then to turn away from it, and all that was happening in it, to the sweet air and to fly along between green fields and orchards, through little towns, at intervals to cross the Thames and to feel that with each crossing London lay so much farther away. Henle...