The Orchid's Dying Breath

The Orchid's Dying Breath

Gavin

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Ethan swirled his whiskey, convinced, "Relationships, marriage, it's all a game, and the one who cares less, wins." He' d often said it, casually dismissing his wife, Chloe, and believing she loved him too much to ever leave. Then came Mark's hushed words, cutting through the bar's noise like a knife: "She's dead, Ethan." Dead? Ethan laughed, a harsh, unnatural sound, certain it was a twisted prank. Chloe was just at Olivia's, throwing a tantrum, he' d even mocked her "vacation" in a text. He meticulously cleaned, cooked her favorite meal, and replaced her drooping orchid, waiting for her triumphant return. But the food grew cold, the silence deafening, as his delusion deepened. Then, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood at his door, their faces etched with a grief so profound it shattered his constructed reality. "She is dead, Ethan!" Mr. Peterson roared, "Dead because of you! You killed her spirit long before that car ever touched her!" Ethan swayed, his mind reeling. Dead? But how? Why couldn't he remember? Why did everyone look at him with such hatred, such pity? Was he truly capable of something so monstrous that his mind had simply erased it? A blinding headache pulsed behind his eyes, a terrifying void in his memory threatening to swallow him whole. As the ceramic bird Chloe made finally fell from his numb fingers, the dam in Ethan' s mind broke. Memories, cold and brutal, flooded in: ignoring her calls during a storm, prioritizing a deal over her safety, her body under a white sheet, his blank stare at her funeral. Months later, a diagnosis came: glioblastoma. The doctor offered surgery, but warned it could erase his traumatic past. "I won't forget her," he rasped, refusing the memory-erasing procedure. He would cling to the pain, a constant reminder of the woman he destroyed, now the only thing left of her he deserved.

Introduction

Ethan swirled his whiskey, convinced, "Relationships, marriage, it's all a game, and the one who cares less, wins."

He' d often said it, casually dismissing his wife, Chloe, and believing she loved him too much to ever leave.

Then came Mark's hushed words, cutting through the bar's noise like a knife: "She's dead, Ethan."

Dead? Ethan laughed, a harsh, unnatural sound, certain it was a twisted prank.

Chloe was just at Olivia's, throwing a tantrum, he' d even mocked her "vacation" in a text.

He meticulously cleaned, cooked her favorite meal, and replaced her drooping orchid, waiting for her triumphant return.

But the food grew cold, the silence deafening, as his delusion deepened.

Then, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson stood at his door, their faces etched with a grief so profound it shattered his constructed reality.

"She is dead, Ethan!" Mr. Peterson roared, "Dead because of you! You killed her spirit long before that car ever touched her!"

Ethan swayed, his mind reeling.

Dead? But how? Why couldn't he remember?

Why did everyone look at him with such hatred, such pity?

Was he truly capable of something so monstrous that his mind had simply erased it?

A blinding headache pulsed behind his eyes, a terrifying void in his memory threatening to swallow him whole.

As the ceramic bird Chloe made finally fell from his numb fingers, the dam in Ethan' s mind broke.

Memories, cold and brutal, flooded in: ignoring her calls during a storm, prioritizing a deal over her safety, her body under a white sheet, his blank stare at her funeral.

Months later, a diagnosis came: glioblastoma.

The doctor offered surgery, but warned it could erase his traumatic past.

"I won't forget her," he rasped, refusing the memory-erasing procedure.

He would cling to the pain, a constant reminder of the woman he destroyed, now the only thing left of her he deserved.

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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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