His Casual Betrayal, Her Calculated Revenge

His Casual Betrayal, Her Calculated Revenge

I. HAWKINS

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The email from the estate manager shattered the calm of my curated life. It announced unauthorized use and damage to my Hamptons beach house, the one my family built generations ago. Then I saw the photos: my custom garden, a year in the making, utterly destroyed. And worse, a priceless Brancusi sculpture, a gift from my father, in pieces by the pool. An Instagram link confirmed my nightmare: my husband Ethan's secretary, Chloe Miller, gloating with a nine-photo spread of a pool party at my house, thanking "her boss" for the "generous gift." His response was chillingly casual: "Ava, don't be so possessive. It's just a house. We have others. She needed a break." His disregard for my property, my family legacy, was a direct insult. I exacted immediate, calculated revenge, selling the house from under Chloe and seizing Ethan's prized classic cars. But the humiliation escalated when Chloe brazenly wore my custom Oscar de la Renta gown to a high-society gala, Ethan beaming by her side. My retaliations, though swift and public, only seemed to fuel his delusion, culminating in Chloe's theatrical, fake suicide attempt. He blamed me, fired loyal staff, and promoted her to a senior position. Then came the ultimate betrayal: in a hospital corridor, as I secretly clutched a sonogram image, he slapped me. Hard. "You toxic, heartless shrew!" he snarled, accusing me of driving Chloe to "suicide." He didn't see the tiny picture slip from my numb fingers. The world tilted, and my last shred of hope for our marriage, for a family, shattered. I picked up the sonogram, tearing it into tiny pieces. He would pay. He would pay for everything.

Introduction

The email from the estate manager shattered the calm of my curated life.

It announced unauthorized use and damage to my Hamptons beach house, the one my family built generations ago.

Then I saw the photos: my custom garden, a year in the making, utterly destroyed.

And worse, a priceless Brancusi sculpture, a gift from my father, in pieces by the pool.

An Instagram link confirmed my nightmare: my husband Ethan's secretary, Chloe Miller, gloating with a nine-photo spread of a pool party at my house, thanking "her boss" for the "generous gift."

His response was chillingly casual: "Ava, don't be so possessive. It's just a house. We have others. She needed a break."

His disregard for my property, my family legacy, was a direct insult.

I exacted immediate, calculated revenge, selling the house from under Chloe and seizing Ethan's prized classic cars.

But the humiliation escalated when Chloe brazenly wore my custom Oscar de la Renta gown to a high-society gala, Ethan beaming by her side.

My retaliations, though swift and public, only seemed to fuel his delusion, culminating in Chloe's theatrical, fake suicide attempt.

He blamed me, fired loyal staff, and promoted her to a senior position.

Then came the ultimate betrayal: in a hospital corridor, as I secretly clutched a sonogram image, he slapped me.

Hard.

"You toxic, heartless shrew!" he snarled, accusing me of driving Chloe to "suicide."

He didn't see the tiny picture slip from my numb fingers.

The world tilted, and my last shred of hope for our marriage, for a family, shattered.

I picked up the sonogram, tearing it into tiny pieces.

He would pay.

He would pay for everything.

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Hidden Heiress: The Maid You Betrayed

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For five years, I was the invisible glue holding Damien Crawford together. I was the one who pulled him from a burning car until the skin melted off my back, and I was the one who donated bone marrow when he was on death's door. I even gave up a full-ride scholarship to MIT just to be his nurse. Yet, he believed his mistress, Hadley, was his savior. To him, I was just the maid's daughter who changed his bedpans—a piece of furniture he could abuse while he planned his wedding to another woman. But his cruelty didn't stop at verbal abuse. When my father suffered a massive heart attack, Damien refused to let me use the car, choosing to comfort Hadley over a fake panic attack instead. His mother even slashed the tires to ensure I couldn't leave. While my father died cold and alone, Damien stabbed a needle into my hand just to teach me a lesson about "respect," oblivious to the fact that the scars on my skin were the receipt for his life. He didn't know he was torturing the only person who had ever truly loved him. But the girl who begged for crumbs of affection died along with her father that day. I picked up my phone and dialed the number saved simply as a dot. "He's dead," I whispered to the man on the other end—Anderson Morrison, the city's most feared Don and my sworn protector. "I'm coming," he replied, his voice lethal. "And I'm bringing the army." It was time to show Damien that he hadn't just mistreated a maid; he had declared war on a Queen.

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