The Heiress Who Rewrote The Script

The Heiress Who Rewrote The Script

Gavin

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My summer holiday at our Hamptons estate started like any other, quiet and peaceful. Then, a sleek black SUV pulled up, and my world began to unravel. Out stepped Ethan Vance, our estate manager's son, a quiet boy I' d grown up with, but now he was radiating an unsettling arrogance, accompanied by a woman I didn' t recognize. Suddenly, obnoxious social media comments flashed across my vision, overlaid on reality itself. "OMG, Ethan & Chloe, the power couple, are finally reunited! Ash better not get in their way this time!" Another popped up: "Ash is so gonna be the jealous villainess again, lol." Ethan then delivered his shocking demands: Chloe would stay in my favorite Azure Suite, and I was to pull strings for her big Hollywood audition. His voice dripped with condescension as he announced, "My heart belongs to her," then chillingly warned he might "let my family off easy" if I complied. The comments revealed a horrific truth: a "previous life," a "web-drama" where Ethan had used me, married me, and destroyed my family to be with Chloe. I, Ashley Miller, was merely the "jealous, overbearing heiress" destined for total ruin. My mind reeled. Villainess? Use my money? Dump me? This wasn't a hallucination; it was a script they expected me to follow, a pre-ordained triumph. But the sheer audacity, the contempt in his voice, ignited a fierce, unyielding fury within me. They expected a lovesick fool, a doormat. I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of that ending. I raised my hand and slapped Ethan across the face. This was my story to write, and their script was about to be shredded.

Introduction

My summer holiday at our Hamptons estate started like any other, quiet and peaceful.

Then, a sleek black SUV pulled up, and my world began to unravel.

Out stepped Ethan Vance, our estate manager's son, a quiet boy I' d grown up with, but now he was radiating an unsettling arrogance, accompanied by a woman I didn' t recognize.

Suddenly, obnoxious social media comments flashed across my vision, overlaid on reality itself.

"OMG, Ethan & Chloe, the power couple, are finally reunited! Ash better not get in their way this time!"

Another popped up: "Ash is so gonna be the jealous villainess again, lol."

Ethan then delivered his shocking demands: Chloe would stay in my favorite Azure Suite, and I was to pull strings for her big Hollywood audition.

His voice dripped with condescension as he announced, "My heart belongs to her," then chillingly warned he might "let my family off easy" if I complied.

The comments revealed a horrific truth: a "previous life," a "web-drama" where Ethan had used me, married me, and destroyed my family to be with Chloe.

I, Ashley Miller, was merely the "jealous, overbearing heiress" destined for total ruin.

My mind reeled. Villainess? Use my money? Dump me?

This wasn't a hallucination; it was a script they expected me to follow, a pre-ordained triumph.

But the sheer audacity, the contempt in his voice, ignited a fierce, unyielding fury within me.

They expected a lovesick fool, a doormat.

I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of that ending.

I raised my hand and slapped Ethan across the face.

This was my story to write, and their script was about to be shredded.

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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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