A Serpent in My Bed

A Serpent in My Bed

Gavin

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The smell of stale coffee hung heavy in my college dorm room. My roommate, Jessica, hovered over me, her face a mask of feigned concern. She was my best friend, or so I believed then. It was the Monday before Thanksgiving break, a seemingly ordinary start to a week. But the moment I opened my eyes, a brutal wave of memories crashed over me. The screech of tires, blinding headlights, then utter darkness. My family's beloved restaurant, Miller's Place, crumbling to dust. My dad, debilitated by a stroke, his once vibrant eyes now vacant. My brother, Michael, broken, his promising future stolen. And my sweet sister-in-law, Emily, clutching an empty nursery. Jessica, the viper I'd foolishly welcomed, had meticulously orchestrated their ruin. She'd falsely accused Michael, leading to Emily's devastating loss. Her calculated lies had bled our family savings dry to fuel her extortion. The shame, the whispers, the very fabric of our small town life, torn apart. I, Sarah Miller, became the pariah, blamed for enabling the monster. The relentless online bullying drove me to walk into traffic, desperate for an end. Now, here she was again, playing the innocent victim, sighing about a lonely Thanksgiving. Her eyes, wide and pleading, mirroring the exact look that had sealed our destruction. How could I have been so catastrophically naïve, so utterly blind to the serpent in my bed? A cold, potent fury roared inside me, threatening to consume everything. The nightmare was beginning anew, a cruel replay of my worst past. But this time, I wasn't the gullible girl. I was back, somehow, exactly one year before the catastrophe. This time, the script was mine to rewrite. This time, I would not be her fool, her stepping stone to ruin. This time, Jessica would finally pay. Every last, agonizing cent.

Introduction

The smell of stale coffee hung heavy in my college dorm room.

My roommate, Jessica, hovered over me, her face a mask of feigned concern.

She was my best friend, or so I believed then.

It was the Monday before Thanksgiving break, a seemingly ordinary start to a week.

But the moment I opened my eyes, a brutal wave of memories crashed over me.

The screech of tires, blinding headlights, then utter darkness.

My family's beloved restaurant, Miller's Place, crumbling to dust.

My dad, debilitated by a stroke, his once vibrant eyes now vacant.

My brother, Michael, broken, his promising future stolen.

And my sweet sister-in-law, Emily, clutching an empty nursery.

Jessica, the viper I'd foolishly welcomed, had meticulously orchestrated their ruin.

She'd falsely accused Michael, leading to Emily's devastating loss.

Her calculated lies had bled our family savings dry to fuel her extortion.

The shame, the whispers, the very fabric of our small town life, torn apart.

I, Sarah Miller, became the pariah, blamed for enabling the monster.

The relentless online bullying drove me to walk into traffic, desperate for an end.

Now, here she was again, playing the innocent victim, sighing about a lonely Thanksgiving.

Her eyes, wide and pleading, mirroring the exact look that had sealed our destruction.

How could I have been so catastrophically naïve, so utterly blind to the serpent in my bed?

A cold, potent fury roared inside me, threatening to consume everything.

The nightmare was beginning anew, a cruel replay of my worst past.

But this time, I wasn't the gullible girl.

I was back, somehow, exactly one year before the catastrophe.

This time, the script was mine to rewrite.

This time, I would not be her fool, her stepping stone to ruin.

This time, Jessica would finally pay.

Every last, agonizing cent.

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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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