Graduation Day: My Escape, Their Show

Graduation Day: My Escape, Their Show

Gavin

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My life was a greasy blur: taqueria shifts, a rundown trailer, and a dad who mostly slept or muttered about bad luck. Mom supposedly left with my twin, Kendra, when Dad's investments went south. That's what I believed for six long years. Then a rare message from Kendra, cryptic and laced with a link, shattered everything. My fingers fumbled as I tapped it, splitting my phone screen. On one side, my grime-covered existence. On the other: Mom, Dad, and Kendra, laughing in a mansion, beneath a banner blaring: "Double Track Lives: The Texas Sisters' Growth Experiment. Subscribers Only." My stomach churned. This wasn't just a show; I was the show. I was the "control group," the struggling poor one, while my family manufactured their wealthy lives from my very real pain. Every tear, every struggle, even the staged debt collectors who demolished my fifty-cent birthday cupcake – all for views. My father, who claimed illness, stole my grandmother's keepsake and flaunted it on stream, saying it taught me 'sacrifice.' The betrayal burned colder than any Texas night. How could they? How could my own family turn my life into a spectacle of poverty, milking my hardship for their luxury? My despair hardened into an icy resolve. They thought they had me scripted for a big family reunion on graduation day. But as I walked off that stage, clutching my MIT acceptance letter, I wasn't walking to them. I was walking away, with a new purpose and a stack of loans taken in my father's name. This experiment was about to go off-script.

Introduction

My life was a greasy blur: taqueria shifts, a rundown trailer, and a dad who mostly slept or muttered about bad luck. Mom supposedly left with my twin, Kendra, when Dad's investments went south. That's what I believed for six long years.

Then a rare message from Kendra, cryptic and laced with a link, shattered everything. My fingers fumbled as I tapped it, splitting my phone screen. On one side, my grime-covered existence. On the other: Mom, Dad, and Kendra, laughing in a mansion, beneath a banner blaring: "Double Track Lives: The Texas Sisters' Growth Experiment. Subscribers Only."

My stomach churned. This wasn't just a show; I was the show. I was the "control group," the struggling poor one, while my family manufactured their wealthy lives from my very real pain. Every tear, every struggle, even the staged debt collectors who demolished my fifty-cent birthday cupcake – all for views. My father, who claimed illness, stole my grandmother's keepsake and flaunted it on stream, saying it taught me 'sacrifice.'

The betrayal burned colder than any Texas night. How could they? How could my own family turn my life into a spectacle of poverty, milking my hardship for their luxury? My despair hardened into an icy resolve.

They thought they had me scripted for a big family reunion on graduation day. But as I walked off that stage, clutching my MIT acceptance letter, I wasn't walking to them. I was walking away, with a new purpose and a stack of loans taken in my father's name. This experiment was about to go off-script.

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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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