The Day I Died, She Finally Knew My Truth

The Day I Died, She Finally Knew My Truth

Gavin

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I walked out of Chino State Prison, a free man, but my body carried a death sentence. The clanging gates closed behind me, a period at the end of five lost years. The California sun felt too bright on my face, and my lungs burned with the fatal lung cancer I'd contracted inside. I had one final wish: to have my ashes scattered at Point Sublime, a remote, sacred spot in the Grand Canyon I'd promised to share with Olivia, years ago, our forever place. But then Olivia Hayes, my past love, now engaged to my former best friend and tormentor, Marcus Thorne, appeared. Her eyes, once full of youthful adoration, now seethed with pure, unadulterated hatred. She offered me a job: her personal driver, not out of kindness, but out of a cold desire for me to witness everything I had supposedly ruined. I took the job, enduring her glacial contempt and Marcus's sadistic pleasure day after agonizing day, as my failing health rapidly withered beneath my uniform. I coughed up blood in secret, retrieved her family heirloom ring from an icy pool at Marcus's cruel behest, and pulled her from a burning guesthouse, letting Marcus claim the credit for my heroism. Every interaction was a fresh twist of the knife, a public humiliation for a crime I didn't commit, but chose to embrace. They called me a murderer, a reckless monster, a lifelong convict, always oblivious to the truth: I had taken the fall for her mother's suicide, sacrificing my freedom and reputation, to protect Olivia and her family's stained name from further ruin. I had lost everything for her, only to become the very person she now despised, fueling her relentless cruelty. Then Marcus's reckless accident left him bleeding out, urgently needing my rare blood type. Olivia, desperate to save the man who reveled in my suffering, came to me. She didn't ask; she demanded my life. And with my last breath, still loving her unconditionally, I gave it.

Introduction

I walked out of Chino State Prison, a free man, but my body carried a death sentence.

The clanging gates closed behind me, a period at the end of five lost years.

The California sun felt too bright on my face, and my lungs burned with the fatal lung cancer I'd contracted inside.

I had one final wish: to have my ashes scattered at Point Sublime, a remote, sacred spot in the Grand Canyon I'd promised to share with Olivia, years ago, our forever place.

But then Olivia Hayes, my past love, now engaged to my former best friend and tormentor, Marcus Thorne, appeared.

Her eyes, once full of youthful adoration, now seethed with pure, unadulterated hatred.

She offered me a job: her personal driver, not out of kindness, but out of a cold desire for me to witness everything I had supposedly ruined.

I took the job, enduring her glacial contempt and Marcus's sadistic pleasure day after agonizing day, as my failing health rapidly withered beneath my uniform.

I coughed up blood in secret, retrieved her family heirloom ring from an icy pool at Marcus's cruel behest, and pulled her from a burning guesthouse, letting Marcus claim the credit for my heroism.

Every interaction was a fresh twist of the knife, a public humiliation for a crime I didn't commit, but chose to embrace.

They called me a murderer, a reckless monster, a lifelong convict, always oblivious to the truth: I had taken the fall for her mother's suicide, sacrificing my freedom and reputation, to protect Olivia and her family's stained name from further ruin.

I had lost everything for her, only to become the very person she now despised, fueling her relentless cruelty.

Then Marcus's reckless accident left him bleeding out, urgently needing my rare blood type.

Olivia, desperate to save the man who reveled in my suffering, came to me.

She didn't ask; she demanded my life.

And with my last breath, still loving her unconditionally, I gave it.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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