Isabelle's Downfall: A Twisted Love Story

Isabelle's Downfall: A Twisted Love Story

Bai Bian

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Tomorrow, I, Ethan Reed, was set to marry Isabelle Davenport, the exquisite old-money bride who promised a future of prestige and endless possibilities. Our lavish rehearsal dinner glowed with anticipation, my parents beaming with pride as their "new money" son married into established aristocracy. Then, a chilling phone call shattered everything. "I'm pregnant, Ethan," Isabelle whispered, "It's Liam's." My world tilted, instantly replaced by a wave of nausea and disbelief. She didn't stop there. Isabelle demanded I postpone the wedding indefinitely, quit my career to support them, and even insisted their relationship be openly acknowledged, with Liam, her step-brother and the baby's father, moving into our condo. The next indignity: she had my belongings, including my beloved grandmother's irreplaceable quilt, dumped on the curb, then maliciously desecrated the quilt itself with cigarette burns. The final blow came when Liam staged a pathetic suicide attempt, and Isabelle, her eyes blazing, tried to force me to apologize, even offering me a letter opener to "understand his pain" by cutting myself. How could the woman I loved be so utterly manipulative, so cruelly deluded? My future, meticulously planned, lay in toxic ruins. But amidst the devastation, a memory resurfaced, a lifeline in the darkness. Today was my 30th birthday. And a childhood pact with my best friend, Chloe: "If you hit the big three-oh still single, Ethan Reed, you're mine. We marry each other. Deal?" Just as I stood broken, she appeared, the small gift in her hand, her eyes clear and steady. "A deal's a deal, Ethan," she said, cutting through the ash of my ruined life. "Marry me, Ethan. In three days. I'll handle everything."

Introduction

Tomorrow, I, Ethan Reed, was set to marry Isabelle Davenport, the exquisite old-money bride who promised a future of prestige and endless possibilities.

Our lavish rehearsal dinner glowed with anticipation, my parents beaming with pride as their "new money" son married into established aristocracy.

Then, a chilling phone call shattered everything.

"I'm pregnant, Ethan," Isabelle whispered, "It's Liam's."

My world tilted, instantly replaced by a wave of nausea and disbelief.

She didn't stop there.

Isabelle demanded I postpone the wedding indefinitely, quit my career to support them, and even insisted their relationship be openly acknowledged, with Liam, her step-brother and the baby's father, moving into our condo.

The next indignity: she had my belongings, including my beloved grandmother's irreplaceable quilt, dumped on the curb, then maliciously desecrated the quilt itself with cigarette burns.

The final blow came when Liam staged a pathetic suicide attempt, and Isabelle, her eyes blazing, tried to force me to apologize, even offering me a letter opener to "understand his pain" by cutting myself.

How could the woman I loved be so utterly manipulative, so cruelly deluded?

My future, meticulously planned, lay in toxic ruins.

But amidst the devastation, a memory resurfaced, a lifeline in the darkness.

Today was my 30th birthday.

And a childhood pact with my best friend, Chloe: "If you hit the big three-oh still single, Ethan Reed, you're mine. We marry each other. Deal?"

Just as I stood broken, she appeared, the small gift in her hand, her eyes clear and steady.

"A deal's a deal, Ethan," she said, cutting through the ash of my ruined life.

"Marry me, Ethan. In three days. I'll handle everything."

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The Stoic Billionaire's Secret Family Exposed

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I lived in a sanitized mansion kept at a constant sixty-five degrees, governed by a legal contract that dictated everything from our intimacy schedule to my "modest" wardrobe. My husband, Cedrick Fields, was a world-renowned stoic who preached discipline and emotional detachment, treating our marriage like a corporate merger and me like a line-item expense he was tired of paying. The illusion of his "virtuous" life shattered when I found his hidden tablet. I expected corporate secrets, but instead, I found a folder titled "Sanctuary." It was filled with photos of him laughing on yachts and playing with a toddler who undeniably had his eyes. He wasn't a cold machine; he was a devoted father and a passionate lover to socialite Julianna Baird. When I tried to fight back, his assistant threatened to cut the funding for my mother's ventilator, forcing me to sign a document admitting I was "mentally unstable." Then, Cedrick did the unthinkable: he moved his mistress and secret child into our home, relegating me to the servants' quarters and ordering me to play the "reclusive aunt" to protect his public image. I was forced to watch them play "happy family" in the rooms I once decorated, realizing even my own step-family had been on his payroll for years, helping him hide the betrayal. They all knew about his second life while I was being starved of affection and dignity in a house that felt more like a prison every day. But Cedrick's arrogance was his ultimate downfall. He was so distracted by moving Julianna into the master suite that he didn't bother to read the stack of NDAs I placed on his desk. Hidden among the corporate jargon was a petition for the dissolution of our marriage. He signed it without even looking up from his phone, unknowingly handing me the legal victory I needed. I didn't just leave that night; I walked out with his signature on a divorce and a folder full of evidence that would burn his "stoic" reputation to the ground.

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