His Last Surprise

His Last Surprise

Gavin

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My seven-year relationship ended with a deepfake, meticulously crafted to ruin my indie game developer career. Then my mother's health rapidly declined, baffling doctors. My childhood best friend, Liam, emerged as my rock, supporting me through profound grief. Three years later, married and eight months pregnant with his child, I overheard a horrifying truth: Liam, my doting husband, orchestrated everything. He had my mother murdered for a lung transplant for my stepsister, Chloe, and engineered the deepfake to isolate me. I was just a pawn in his sick obsession with Chloe. The man whose child I carried was a monster. My life was a meticulously constructed lie. Then, Chloe, the fragile invalid, confessed more: Liam had caused my two previous miscarriages and planned to give our baby to her. When I confronted her, she staged a fake miscarriage, and my own father, encouraged by Liam, broke my hand for it. My art, my solace, shattered. The pain was unbearable, but a steel resolve hardened within me. How could the man I trusted, loved, orchestrate such depravity? Why was I, my mother, my children, mere collateral in his twisted game? The injustice burned. I ended my pregnancy, enduring unbearable agony, then placed the preserved fetus in an ornate gift box. I donned a prosthetic belly, began divorce proceedings, and secured a new identity. On the day of my "delivery," I walked away, leaving him a chilling surprise, ready to forge a new life as Grace Jordan, a survivor reborn.

Introduction

My seven-year relationship ended with a deepfake, meticulously crafted to ruin my indie game developer career.

Then my mother's health rapidly declined, baffling doctors.

My childhood best friend, Liam, emerged as my rock, supporting me through profound grief.

Three years later, married and eight months pregnant with his child, I overheard a horrifying truth: Liam, my doting husband, orchestrated everything.

He had my mother murdered for a lung transplant for my stepsister, Chloe, and engineered the deepfake to isolate me.

I was just a pawn in his sick obsession with Chloe.

The man whose child I carried was a monster.

My life was a meticulously constructed lie.

Then, Chloe, the fragile invalid, confessed more: Liam had caused my two previous miscarriages and planned to give our baby to her.

When I confronted her, she staged a fake miscarriage, and my own father, encouraged by Liam, broke my hand for it.

My art, my solace, shattered.

The pain was unbearable, but a steel resolve hardened within me.

How could the man I trusted, loved, orchestrate such depravity?

Why was I, my mother, my children, mere collateral in his twisted game?

The injustice burned.

I ended my pregnancy, enduring unbearable agony, then placed the preserved fetus in an ornate gift box.

I donned a prosthetic belly, began divorce proceedings, and secured a new identity.

On the day of my "delivery," I walked away, leaving him a chilling surprise, ready to forge a new life as Grace Jordan, a survivor reborn.

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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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