The Unseen Hand of Sterling

The Unseen Hand of Sterling

Gavin

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I spent hours sourcing ingredients, meticulously preparing a farm-to-table lunch for my wife, Olivia. It was meant to show my unwavering support for her booming career, a perfect culinary testament to my love. But Olivia barely glanced at the beautifully set table. One quick peck on the cheek, a mumbled excuse about a "team BBQ," and she was gone. Moments later, I saw it: her Instagram, smugly captioning a brisket sandwich, while her assistant Mark' s LinkedIn showcased my elaborate meal, beautifully plated at his office desk, praising Olivia as the "Best Boss." My scallops. My panna cotta. All discarded and used as a prop for her assistant. When I confronted her, she fiercely defended Mark, even accusing me of being "childish." Later, in a fit of rage, she shattered our anniversary sculpture and even a Sterling family heirloom, injuring me in the process, while implying my actions destroyed our relationship. It wasn't just about lunch. It was a relentless invalidation, a blatant disrespect for our vows, for my very identity. My devotion wasn't just unappreciated; it was actively repurposed for another man' s gain, treated as worthless by the woman I cherished most. How could she prioritize his superficial flattery over everything we built? That was the breaking point. I left, but not in defeat. My "departure" was merely phase one. When I unexpectedly returned, catching her laughing intimately with Mark and her own mother dismissing my pain, I knew. The shattered wedding photo I left behind wasn't just physical debris; it was a promise. A promise of a meticulous, devastating reckoning.

Introduction

I spent hours sourcing ingredients, meticulously preparing a farm-to-table lunch for my wife, Olivia. It was meant to show my unwavering support for her booming career, a perfect culinary testament to my love.

But Olivia barely glanced at the beautifully set table. One quick peck on the cheek, a mumbled excuse about a "team BBQ," and she was gone. Moments later, I saw it: her Instagram, smugly captioning a brisket sandwich, while her assistant Mark' s LinkedIn showcased my elaborate meal, beautifully plated at his office desk, praising Olivia as the "Best Boss."

My scallops. My panna cotta. All discarded and used as a prop for her assistant. When I confronted her, she fiercely defended Mark, even accusing me of being "childish." Later, in a fit of rage, she shattered our anniversary sculpture and even a Sterling family heirloom, injuring me in the process, while implying my actions destroyed our relationship.

It wasn't just about lunch. It was a relentless invalidation, a blatant disrespect for our vows, for my very identity. My devotion wasn't just unappreciated; it was actively repurposed for another man' s gain, treated as worthless by the woman I cherished most. How could she prioritize his superficial flattery over everything we built?

That was the breaking point. I left, but not in defeat. My "departure" was merely phase one. When I unexpectedly returned, catching her laughing intimately with Mark and her own mother dismissing my pain, I knew. The shattered wedding photo I left behind wasn't just physical debris; it was a promise. A promise of a meticulous, devastating reckoning.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Mafia

4.5

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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