Woke Up A Stranger, Found My Love

Woke Up A Stranger, Found My Love

Gavin

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I woke up in a hospital, my past a blank beyond my 18th year. The doctor said I was 27, even a talented architect, and married. But the woman they introduced as my wife, Sophia, was a cold, stunning stranger. She looked at me with thinly veiled contempt. She spoke of my nine lost years as a descent into breakdowns and "pathetic" dependence. My supposed best friend, Ethan Vance, was her true confidante, a smirking rival. Disgust curdled in my gut. This wasn't me. My 18-year-old self, full of ambition and drive, recoiled from this emasculated shadow of a man they described. How could I have become a "kept man," constantly ridiculed, chasing the approval of an ice queen? The humiliation was palpable, preserved in flashed cameras and casual insults. But this amnesia, this blank slate, felt like a gift. It stripped away the years of self-erasure, leaving behind only the core of who I was. And that core wanted nothing to do with this suffocating, demeaning life. "I want a divorce," I told her, my voice surprisingly firm. "The me I know wouldn't be married to someone who calls him pathetic." This was no act, no episode. This was me, fighting to reclaim a life I didn't remember. A life free from the woman who claimed to be my wife and the rival who wanted me utterly destroyed. Little did I know, the fight for my true identity would lead to a bloody confrontation and a shocking revelation that would change everything.

Introduction

I woke up in a hospital, my past a blank beyond my 18th year.

The doctor said I was 27, even a talented architect, and married.

But the woman they introduced as my wife, Sophia, was a cold, stunning stranger.

She looked at me with thinly veiled contempt.

She spoke of my nine lost years as a descent into breakdowns and "pathetic" dependence.

My supposed best friend, Ethan Vance, was her true confidante, a smirking rival.

Disgust curdled in my gut.

This wasn't me.

My 18-year-old self, full of ambition and drive, recoiled from this emasculated shadow of a man they described.

How could I have become a "kept man," constantly ridiculed, chasing the approval of an ice queen?

The humiliation was palpable, preserved in flashed cameras and casual insults.

But this amnesia, this blank slate, felt like a gift.

It stripped away the years of self-erasure, leaving behind only the core of who I was.

And that core wanted nothing to do with this suffocating, demeaning life.

"I want a divorce," I told her, my voice surprisingly firm.

"The me I know wouldn't be married to someone who calls him pathetic."

This was no act, no episode.

This was me, fighting to reclaim a life I didn't remember.

A life free from the woman who claimed to be my wife and the rival who wanted me utterly destroyed.

Little did I know, the fight for my true identity would lead to a bloody confrontation and a shocking revelation that would change everything.

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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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