Your Stolen Dreams, My Rebuilt Empire

Your Stolen Dreams, My Rebuilt Empire

Gavin

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I never thought I'd see David Miller again. For seven years, I' d been the ghost of Ash Carter, the once-promising architecture student whose dreams he' d stolen, whose career he' d sabotaged. Now, a single mom doing freelance drafting to pay the bills, I found myself in a children's museum, comforting my son Leo after a scraped knee. Then, his voice. Theatrically loud, cutting through the din. David, impeccably suited, with a preppy assistant clinging to his arm. He spotted me, his eyes lighting up with a sickening, triumphant gleam. Before a crowd of strangers and his colleagues, he pulled out our old university portfolio, the very project he' d claimed as his own. He draped himself in false sorrow, claiming he' d "never stopped thinking about what we had," implying Leo was his son. He gestured at my comfortable but simple jeans, offering to "help me get back on my feet." His colleagues watched, pitying him, scorning me as the woman who' d let a genius slip away. My past, his crime, was put on public display, twisted into a narrative of my failure and his magnanimity. A cold calm settled over me. How could he be this brazen? This utterly devoid of shame? He truly believed I was still pining for him, still broken by his betrayal. My heart ached for the injustice, for the years he' d condemned me to anonymity. But then, I lifted my hand. The art-deco sapphire ring glinted under the museum lights. "And I'm married," I stated, my voice clear and firm. His confidence wavered, but only for a second. "Ridiculous! Who would marry you?" he sneered. Just as his pitying gaze returned, a quiet voice cut through: "Is there a problem here, Ash?" My husband, Michael Vance, stepped forward, and David' s world began to unravel.

Introduction

I never thought I'd see David Miller again.

For seven years, I' d been the ghost of Ash Carter, the once-promising architecture student whose dreams he' d stolen, whose career he' d sabotaged.

Now, a single mom doing freelance drafting to pay the bills, I found myself in a children's museum, comforting my son Leo after a scraped knee.

Then, his voice.

Theatrically loud, cutting through the din.

David, impeccably suited, with a preppy assistant clinging to his arm.

He spotted me, his eyes lighting up with a sickening, triumphant gleam.

Before a crowd of strangers and his colleagues, he pulled out our old university portfolio, the very project he' d claimed as his own.

He draped himself in false sorrow, claiming he' d "never stopped thinking about what we had," implying Leo was his son.

He gestured at my comfortable but simple jeans, offering to "help me get back on my feet."

His colleagues watched, pitying him, scorning me as the woman who' d let a genius slip away.

My past, his crime, was put on public display, twisted into a narrative of my failure and his magnanimity.

A cold calm settled over me.

How could he be this brazen?

This utterly devoid of shame?

He truly believed I was still pining for him, still broken by his betrayal.

My heart ached for the injustice, for the years he' d condemned me to anonymity.

But then, I lifted my hand.

The art-deco sapphire ring glinted under the museum lights.

"And I'm married," I stated, my voice clear and firm.

His confidence wavered, but only for a second.

"Ridiculous! Who would marry you?" he sneered.

Just as his pitying gaze returned, a quiet voice cut through: "Is there a problem here, Ash?"

My husband, Michael Vance, stepped forward, and David' s world began to unravel.

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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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