The Heiress's Second Chance At Revenge

The Heiress's Second Chance At Revenge

Gavin

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I grew up spoiled, flying first class and dreaming of million-dollar handbags. But for once, I wanted a "real American experience," something my elite family would scoff at. So, I booked a Greyhound bus ticket, planning to save a fortune and prove I wasn't just a pampered rich kid. Then the nightmare jolted me awake, cold sweat gripping my back. It wasn't a dream; it was a memory. A grim, horrifying memory of that other life where my simple act of kindness on this very bus led to unspeakable horrors. I saw her again, "Mama" Darlene, with her sickeningly sweet smile and homemade cookies. I remembered the darkness that followed, waking up in a filthy room, my money gone. I remembered Cletus, Darlene' s son, dragging me into the mountains, bringing me to a shack. The things he did to me, the pain, before they left me for dead in a ditch. To be here again, reliving the beginning of that hell, felt like a cruel joke. Why was I given this second chance, only to endure the terror of knowing what was coming? My stomach clenched as I saw Mama Darlene, already beside my seat, her repulsive grandson pawing at my backpack. Was this nightmare destined to repeat, or could I break free? My hands trembled, but my mind was crystal clear. This time, I was awake. And this time, I was ready to turn their game into my personal battlefield. I grabbed my phone, and with a cold resolve, started calling in favors that would turn their Appalachian nightmare into theirs.

Introduction

I grew up spoiled, flying first class and dreaming of million-dollar handbags.

But for once, I wanted a "real American experience," something my elite family would scoff at.

So, I booked a Greyhound bus ticket, planning to save a fortune and prove I wasn't just a pampered rich kid.

Then the nightmare jolted me awake, cold sweat gripping my back.

It wasn't a dream; it was a memory.

A grim, horrifying memory of that other life where my simple act of kindness on this very bus led to unspeakable horrors.

I saw her again, "Mama" Darlene, with her sickeningly sweet smile and homemade cookies.

I remembered the darkness that followed, waking up in a filthy room, my money gone.

I remembered Cletus, Darlene' s son, dragging me into the mountains, bringing me to a shack.

The things he did to me, the pain, before they left me for dead in a ditch.

To be here again, reliving the beginning of that hell, felt like a cruel joke.

Why was I given this second chance, only to endure the terror of knowing what was coming?

My stomach clenched as I saw Mama Darlene, already beside my seat, her repulsive grandson pawing at my backpack.

Was this nightmare destined to repeat, or could I break free?

My hands trembled, but my mind was crystal clear.

This time, I was awake.

And this time, I was ready to turn their game into my personal battlefield.

I grabbed my phone, and with a cold resolve, started calling in favors that would turn their Appalachian nightmare into theirs.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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