When The Charity Case Buys The Empire

When The Charity Case Buys The Empire

Gavin

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I was the Bradford family's charity case, groomed to be Liam Bradford's wife, endlessly cleaning up his messes. Discreet calls to pharmacies, quiet payoffs – that was my life, a familiar, suffocating routine. Then, Eleanor Bradford's chilling call: "Ava, the penthouse. Now." I walked in to find Sophia Hayes, Liam's high school sweetheart, artfully tear-streaked and clutching her stomach. "It's her, or me and our babies!" Liam didn't even look at me. "It's Sophia. She's pregnant. Twins." He casually outlined his plan: Sophia would live in our penthouse, I'd be a godmother, then a sham wedding for appearances. My antique locket, a treasured gift, was tossed carelessly towards a trash bin. Later, Liam announced my custom wedding dress would be live-streamed as a charity donation for "good PR." "You were taken in out of charity," he sneered. "Be eternally grateful." The final blow: a legal document demanding I sign away any future maternal claims, ensuring Sophia's twins were the undisputed Bradford heirs. My value, reduced to a barren placeholder. When I refused, Sophia staged a dramatic fall, screaming I'd tried to harm her babies. Liam, in a furious rage, threw my suitcase, then shoved me out of the penthouse. "Go back to the gutter where we found you!" he roared, slamming the door. Cast out. Alone. But a cold, steel resolve ignited. My trembling hand dialed a name I hadn't called in years: Jax Cole. "Is that offer... does it still stand?" I choked out. "Always, Ava," he replied. "For you, always." My only way out. Boston City Hall. Three days. Nine AM. I would be there.

Introduction

I was the Bradford family's charity case, groomed to be Liam Bradford's wife, endlessly cleaning up his messes.

Discreet calls to pharmacies, quiet payoffs – that was my life, a familiar, suffocating routine.

Then, Eleanor Bradford's chilling call: "Ava, the penthouse. Now."

I walked in to find Sophia Hayes, Liam's high school sweetheart, artfully tear-streaked and clutching her stomach.

"It's her, or me and our babies!"

Liam didn't even look at me. "It's Sophia. She's pregnant. Twins."

He casually outlined his plan: Sophia would live in our penthouse, I'd be a godmother, then a sham wedding for appearances.

My antique locket, a treasured gift, was tossed carelessly towards a trash bin.

Later, Liam announced my custom wedding dress would be live-streamed as a charity donation for "good PR."

"You were taken in out of charity," he sneered. "Be eternally grateful."

The final blow: a legal document demanding I sign away any future maternal claims, ensuring Sophia's twins were the undisputed Bradford heirs.

My value, reduced to a barren placeholder.

When I refused, Sophia staged a dramatic fall, screaming I'd tried to harm her babies.

Liam, in a furious rage, threw my suitcase, then shoved me out of the penthouse.

"Go back to the gutter where we found you!" he roared, slamming the door.

Cast out. Alone. But a cold, steel resolve ignited.

My trembling hand dialed a name I hadn't called in years: Jax Cole.

"Is that offer... does it still stand?" I choked out.

"Always, Ava," he replied. "For you, always."

My only way out.

Boston City Hall. Three days. Nine AM. I would be there.

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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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