The Auctioned Wife's Escape

The Auctioned Wife's Escape

Gavin

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For ten agonizing years, the brand on my hip was a constant, burning reminder of my forced marriage to Ethan Harrison, a symbol of the shame he inflicted on me, the "charity case" his powerful family took in. But the dreaded decade was almost over. Freedom, a word I barely dared whisper, was finally within reach. Until tonight. At his family's annual charity gala, surrounded by the city's elite, Ethan dragged me onto the stage, a predatory smile on his face. "We auction a unique experience," he announced, tightening his grip on my arm. "An experience with my... wife, Sarah." My private photos flashed across the giant screen, then a chilling close-up of the ugly mark on my hip, exposed for all to see. The crowd gasped as the bidding began. "The highest bidder will get... quality time with Sarah. Live-streamed, of course." This wasn't just humiliation; it was a public sale, a human auction. His conniving "true love" smirked, as Ethan whispered chilling threats about my innocent brother. He owned me, he truly believed it. I stood there, an animal on display, utterly broken, the velvet ropes he bound me with biting into my skin. How could a man repay a life debt from my war hero grandfather by selling his wife? My family sacrificed everything, and this was my twisted reward? But just as despair threatened to consume me, a formidable figure emerged from the stunned crowd: Marcus Thorne, Harrison's ruthless business rival. He brought with him an unexpected ally, and as Ethan raged, a shocking truth was finally revealed: my ten-year contract was up, my marriage over. My freedom, fiercely fought for in silence, was about to begin – and Ethan Harrison was about to learn that some debts are paid with more than just money.

Introduction

For ten agonizing years, the brand on my hip was a constant, burning reminder of my forced marriage to Ethan Harrison, a symbol of the shame he inflicted on me, the "charity case" his powerful family took in. But the dreaded decade was almost over. Freedom, a word I barely dared whisper, was finally within reach.

Until tonight. At his family's annual charity gala, surrounded by the city's elite, Ethan dragged me onto the stage, a predatory smile on his face. "We auction a unique experience," he announced, tightening his grip on my arm. "An experience with my... wife, Sarah."

My private photos flashed across the giant screen, then a chilling close-up of the ugly mark on my hip, exposed for all to see. The crowd gasped as the bidding began. "The highest bidder will get... quality time with Sarah. Live-streamed, of course." This wasn't just humiliation; it was a public sale, a human auction. His conniving "true love" smirked, as Ethan whispered chilling threats about my innocent brother.

He owned me, he truly believed it. I stood there, an animal on display, utterly broken, the velvet ropes he bound me with biting into my skin. How could a man repay a life debt from my war hero grandfather by selling his wife? My family sacrificed everything, and this was my twisted reward?

But just as despair threatened to consume me, a formidable figure emerged from the stunned crowd: Marcus Thorne, Harrison's ruthless business rival. He brought with him an unexpected ally, and as Ethan raged, a shocking truth was finally revealed: my ten-year contract was up, my marriage over. My freedom, fiercely fought for in silence, was about to begin – and Ethan Harrison was about to learn that some debts are paid with more than just money.

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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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