His Stolen Legacy: The Code That Built Billions

His Stolen Legacy: The Code That Built Billions

Gavin

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My world was a cracked apartment ceiling, water dripping into a rusted pot, somewhere in a forgotten Rust Belt town. I was Ethan Miller, the man Sophia called her "rock," tirelessly coding the core of her tech empire, Elysian, from this grim solitude. I believed her promises of a shared future in California, even as she lived it up in Silicon Valley with her Head of Marketing, Leo. But the last thing I saw before my chest seized with a sharp, final pain, was Sophia' s face, laughing not with me, but with him. Her divorce papers, a "formality," lay discarded nearby, purchased with the money she' d supposedly sent for my living expenses-money that actually funded Leo' s Tesla and his glittering Palo Alto condo. I died knowing the brutal truth: her affair, the stolen millions, the calculated lies that had festered over years. Anger and crushing regret were my only companions in that ultimate betrayal. Then, a jolt. I sat bolt upright in my lumpy bed, the calendar on the wall showing yesterday's date-the day after Sophia had called, her voice smooth, assuring me about a "divorce for show." I knew everything now. Every lie, every betrayal, every stolen cent. This time, things would be drastically different. My hands were steady, my resolve chillingly clear. With just a bus ticket in my worn wallet, I was going to Silicon Valley. My intellectual property, my years of unpaid labor, my shattered life – I was coming to reclaim every single piece of it, and they wouldn't know what hit them.

Introduction

My world was a cracked apartment ceiling, water dripping into a rusted pot, somewhere in a forgotten Rust Belt town.

I was Ethan Miller, the man Sophia called her "rock," tirelessly coding the core of her tech empire, Elysian, from this grim solitude.

I believed her promises of a shared future in California, even as she lived it up in Silicon Valley with her Head of Marketing, Leo.

But the last thing I saw before my chest seized with a sharp, final pain, was Sophia' s face, laughing not with me, but with him.

Her divorce papers, a "formality," lay discarded nearby, purchased with the money she' d supposedly sent for my living expenses-money that actually funded Leo' s Tesla and his glittering Palo Alto condo.

I died knowing the brutal truth: her affair, the stolen millions, the calculated lies that had festered over years.

Anger and crushing regret were my only companions in that ultimate betrayal.

Then, a jolt.

I sat bolt upright in my lumpy bed, the calendar on the wall showing yesterday's date-the day after Sophia had called, her voice smooth, assuring me about a "divorce for show."

I knew everything now.

Every lie, every betrayal, every stolen cent.

This time, things would be drastically different.

My hands were steady, my resolve chillingly clear.

With just a bus ticket in my worn wallet, I was going to Silicon Valley.

My intellectual property, my years of unpaid labor, my shattered life – I was coming to reclaim every single piece of it, and they wouldn't know what hit them.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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