From Jilted Fiancée to President's Enforcer

From Jilted Fiancée to President's Enforcer

Gavin

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The champagne flute felt colder than the ballroom air at my lavish engagement party to Senator Ethan Prescott, D.C.'s golden boy. In my first life, this night had been a triumph. But tonight, Isabella Vance, Ethan' s mistress, brazenly crashed the party, heavily pregnant and dramatically announcing, "Ethan, this baby is yours." Chaos swallowed the room; cameras flashed, but I felt a chilling calm. In my previous life, this betrayal had led to my career' s ruin, a faked scandal, and a lonely "accident" – Ethan and Izzy' s masterpiece of destruction. Back then, I was broken; now, I simply placed my flute down and announced, clear-eyed and cold, "Our engagement is over." They continued their facade, building a new narrative and trying to publicly shame me at a White House State Dinner. Ethan mocked me, Izzy sneered at my simple dress, and their cronies tried to have me escorted out, believing I was a pathetic ghost from their past. They thought I was weak, a broken woman clinging to the fringes of their brilliant new lives. Every condescending word, every dismissive glance, was a fresh wound, a reminder of the injustice that had cost me everything. Did they truly think I'd just vanish? My heart, once shattered, was now a block of ice, focused solely on retribution. This time, I was no one's pawn. Just as they tried to completely discredit me, President Thompson himself appeared, announcing my true status as his "most trusted advisor," shielding me with the full weight of his office. My father's legacy, my own history saving the President's life, suddenly became my indisputable shield and sword. The real game had just begun.

Introduction

The champagne flute felt colder than the ballroom air at my lavish engagement party to Senator Ethan Prescott, D.C.'s golden boy.

In my first life, this night had been a triumph.

But tonight, Isabella Vance, Ethan' s mistress, brazenly crashed the party, heavily pregnant and dramatically announcing, "Ethan, this baby is yours."

Chaos swallowed the room; cameras flashed, but I felt a chilling calm.

In my previous life, this betrayal had led to my career' s ruin, a faked scandal, and a lonely "accident" – Ethan and Izzy' s masterpiece of destruction.

Back then, I was broken; now, I simply placed my flute down and announced, clear-eyed and cold, "Our engagement is over."

They continued their facade, building a new narrative and trying to publicly shame me at a White House State Dinner.

Ethan mocked me, Izzy sneered at my simple dress, and their cronies tried to have me escorted out, believing I was a pathetic ghost from their past.

They thought I was weak, a broken woman clinging to the fringes of their brilliant new lives.

Every condescending word, every dismissive glance, was a fresh wound, a reminder of the injustice that had cost me everything.

Did they truly think I'd just vanish?

My heart, once shattered, was now a block of ice, focused solely on retribution.

This time, I was no one's pawn.

Just as they tried to completely discredit me, President Thompson himself appeared, announcing my true status as his "most trusted advisor," shielding me with the full weight of his office.

My father's legacy, my own history saving the President's life, suddenly became my indisputable shield and sword.

The real game had just begun.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Mafia

5.0

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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