Too Late, Mark Olsen

Too Late, Mark Olsen

JENNIFER JARVIS

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I sacrificed a dream career in Silicon Valley and moved halfway across the country, all to build a life with Mark, the man I loved. But then, an Instagram post shattered my world: Mark, arm around a blonde I didn't know, captioned "Celebrating my new role with the amazing Chloe Vanderbilt!" When I confronted him, he unveiled a callous betrayal, coldly stating Chloe was his girlfriend and I was merely a past chapter, no longer "in his league." My attempt to warn Chloe about his true nature backfired spectacularly, as she dismissed me as a "crazy, jealous ex" and, together with Mark, orchestrated a public humiliation at a downtown bar. The ultimate horror struck moments later when two thugs ambushed me, physically assaulted me, and stole everything, growling a chilling warning to "stay away from Austin." Bruised, traumatized, and stripped bare of my dignity and possessions, I was forced to flee the city that had crumbled my life to dust. How could the man I loved, and his new partner, conspire to destroy me so completely, leaving me feeling utterly abandoned and broken with no one to turn to? The injustice burned hotter than any physical wound, screaming for an answer no one seemed willing to provide. But as my plane lifted off, leaving Austin behind, the despair solidified into steel: I vowed to remake myself, stronger and smarter, and one day, they would realize the true cost of their cruel game.

Introduction

I sacrificed a glittering career opportunity in Silicon Valley, moving across the country to Austin, everything for Mark, believing I was building a blissful future with the man I loved.

My four-year relationship with Mark vanished the moment I saw a single Instagram post: him, smiling, arm around "the amazing Chloe Vanderbilt," a caption filled with hashtags, and the chilling, gut-wrenching realization that she was his new girlfriend.

His subsequent icy dismissal of me-labeling me as "not in the same league" and even offering me a degrading role as his mistress-only foreshadowed the calculated cruelty to come, as he and Chloe orchestrated a public setup at a bar, followed by a brutal alley ambush where I was beaten, robbed, and left with nothing but bruises, trauma, and a forced, desperate flight from Austin.

How could the man I loved, the future I so carefully planned, disintegrate into such a cold, calculated betrayal, leaving me utterly abandoned, financially decimated, and stripped of every ounce of dignity, exiled from a life I thought was mine?

But as the plane climbed, leaving behind the city that had shattered my world, a quiet, fierce resolve ignited deep within my bruised soul: I would rise from these ashes, I would rebuild myself, and one day, I would return to Austin not as a broken victim, but as an unstoppable force ready to reclaim what was taken and enact a justice long overdue.

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Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

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The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well. My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez. But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike. And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell. Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake. My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom. "You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!" The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain. Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade. Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel. How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act? Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter? This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for. But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me. And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine.

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Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

SHANA GRAY
4.3

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

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