The Billionaire's Proxy Bride

The Billionaire's Proxy Bride

Gavin

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My life was a picture-perfect dream. At 21, married to the successful real estate titan Marcus Thorne, I lived in a Manhattan penthouse fit for royalty. He adored me, called me his "Muse," showering me with exquisite art and personal gestures. I was pregnant, and our future, with its "little masterpiece" on the way, felt utterly secure. Then I found a hidden compartment in Marcus's antique desk, revealing a chilling secret. Inside, a leather-bound scrapbook held dozens of photos of a woman strikingly similar to me-Isabelle Vance. A faded concert ticket, inscribed "For Izzy, my only dream, my eternal muse," confirmed my worst fear. My entire relationship, every tender word, every grand gesture, was a meticulously crafted lie, a painful echo of his past love. Humiliation and devastation washed over me, a physical blow to my gut. I, his beloved "Muse," was merely a stand-in. Our unborn child, conceived in this grand deception, twisted my insides. Brad, Marcus's best friend, accidentally revealed the truth: "Izzy's back! Thorne's already ditching the pregnant kid-bride!" Isabelle herself then flooded my phone with gloating photos and videos of her and Marcus, reliving their old haunts. Every cherished gift, every thoughtful act, was revealed to be a cruel mimicry of his love for her. I was trapped in a gilded cage built on a lie. How could I possibly live with this soul-crushing betrayal? Who was I, truly, if my entire existence within this marriage had been a substitute? The raw despair was unbearable, eclipsing everything. My resolve hardened, brutal and swift. I walked out of my illusionary life, leaving New York and Marcus Thorne, and began the painful process of reclaiming my own future.

Introduction

My life was a picture-perfect dream.

At 21, married to the successful real estate titan Marcus Thorne, I lived in a Manhattan penthouse fit for royalty.

He adored me, called me his "Muse," showering me with exquisite art and personal gestures.

I was pregnant, and our future, with its "little masterpiece" on the way, felt utterly secure.

Then I found a hidden compartment in Marcus's antique desk, revealing a chilling secret.

Inside, a leather-bound scrapbook held dozens of photos of a woman strikingly similar to me-Isabelle Vance.

A faded concert ticket, inscribed "For Izzy, my only dream, my eternal muse," confirmed my worst fear.

My entire relationship, every tender word, every grand gesture, was a meticulously crafted lie, a painful echo of his past love.

Humiliation and devastation washed over me, a physical blow to my gut.

I, his beloved "Muse," was merely a stand-in.

Our unborn child, conceived in this grand deception, twisted my insides.

Brad, Marcus's best friend, accidentally revealed the truth: "Izzy's back! Thorne's already ditching the pregnant kid-bride!"

Isabelle herself then flooded my phone with gloating photos and videos of her and Marcus, reliving their old haunts.

Every cherished gift, every thoughtful act, was revealed to be a cruel mimicry of his love for her.

I was trapped in a gilded cage built on a lie.

How could I possibly live with this soul-crushing betrayal?

Who was I, truly, if my entire existence within this marriage had been a substitute?

The raw despair was unbearable, eclipsing everything.

My resolve hardened, brutal and swift.

I walked out of my illusionary life, leaving New York and Marcus Thorne, and began the painful process of reclaiming my own future.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
4.5

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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