The Unseen Love: A Mother's Secret

The Unseen Love: A Mother's Secret

Gavin

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For my entire life, I lived in my brother Jack's shadow. He was the charming, reckless musician; I was Emily, the quiet, responsible daughter, always overlooked. As my mother, Susan Carter, lay dictating her will, I braced myself. The old lawyer read it aloud: "To my son, Jack, the house and all my savings." A predictable inheritance for the favored son. But for me: "To my daughter, Emily, I leave my collection of old family recipe books, and the contents of the cedar chest in the attic." Recipe books. An old chest. Worthless junk. It was the ultimate dismissal. While Jack got new bikes, I patched my holed shoes. While Mom funded his music dreams, I worked two jobs for my teaching degree. My A' s uncelebrated; his D-grade parties. Even in death, I was utterly alone, replaced by his triumphant smirk. How could she? After everything I'd done for her – doctor appointments, meals. This wasn't just neglect; this was personal. A deliberate statement: "You are not valued. You are not loved. Not like he is." My heart pounded with agonizing injustice. Could there be anything more? Anything at all? Mark, my husband, eyed my "worthless" inheritance. "What if your mom didn' t know?" he suggested. "Or what if... she left them for a reason, Emily? You love history. You' re the teacher." The bitterness remained, but a defiant spark ignited. What if this seemingly worthless inheritance held a secret, a different kind of legacy?

Introduction

For my entire life, I lived in my brother Jack's shadow.

He was the charming, reckless musician; I was Emily, the quiet, responsible daughter, always overlooked.

As my mother, Susan Carter, lay dictating her will, I braced myself.

The old lawyer read it aloud: "To my son, Jack, the house and all my savings."

A predictable inheritance for the favored son.

But for me: "To my daughter, Emily, I leave my collection of old family recipe books, and the contents of the cedar chest in the attic."

Recipe books. An old chest. Worthless junk. It was the ultimate dismissal.

While Jack got new bikes, I patched my holed shoes.

While Mom funded his music dreams, I worked two jobs for my teaching degree.

My A' s uncelebrated; his D-grade parties.

Even in death, I was utterly alone, replaced by his triumphant smirk.

How could she? After everything I'd done for her – doctor appointments, meals.

This wasn't just neglect; this was personal.

A deliberate statement: "You are not valued. You are not loved. Not like he is."

My heart pounded with agonizing injustice.

Could there be anything more? Anything at all?

Mark, my husband, eyed my "worthless" inheritance.

"What if your mom didn' t know?" he suggested.

"Or what if... she left them for a reason, Emily? You love history. You' re the teacher."

The bitterness remained, but a defiant spark ignited.

What if this seemingly worthless inheritance held a secret, a different kind of legacy?

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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