The Heiress's Loop: My Second Chance

The Heiress's Loop: My Second Chance

Gavin

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My head pounded, a familiar ache, as I slowly sat up in my dorm room, sunlight streaming through the window. But something was terribly wrong; the last thing I remembered was my farewell party before London, a drink from Brianna, and then a confusing blank. Now, my phone confirmed the impossible: September 5th, move-in day, the exact beginning of my freshman year. A cold dread washed over me, stomach churning, as the door creaked open, revealing Brianna Evans, my new roommate. She was slinging a cheap, shiny black jacket over her arm – a blatant, terrible knock-off of my AllSaints leather jacket, the one I had just worn in my real past. It hit me then: I was trapped in a horrifying loop, forced to relive every cruel detail of the previous timeline. I remembered her subtle digs, the stolen moments, the way she'd mimic me, then twist things until I looked like the villain, the prestigious internship I lost, the friendships she sabotaged, the reputation she systematically destroyed. My blood ran cold, then hot with a fury born of knowing exactly what she was. How could I be back here, forced to endure this slow-motion psychological torture all over again? The sheer unfairness of facing her again, knowing the devastation she' d leave in her wake, was almost unbearable. But deep within me, the old Ash – the one who was kind, accommodating, and always gave the benefit of the doubt – was gone, poisoned out of existence by Brianna's venom. This time, things would be drastically different. The game was on, and though she thought she held all the cards, I knew the rules now. I had a lifetime of future knowledge, and this time, the winner wouldn't be Brianna. My future was finally mine to reclaim.

Introduction

My head pounded, a familiar ache, as I slowly sat up in my dorm room, sunlight streaming through the window.

But something was terribly wrong; the last thing I remembered was my farewell party before London, a drink from Brianna, and then a confusing blank.

Now, my phone confirmed the impossible: September 5th, move-in day, the exact beginning of my freshman year.

A cold dread washed over me, stomach churning, as the door creaked open, revealing Brianna Evans, my new roommate.

She was slinging a cheap, shiny black jacket over her arm – a blatant, terrible knock-off of my AllSaints leather jacket, the one I had just worn in my real past.

It hit me then: I was trapped in a horrifying loop, forced to relive every cruel detail of the previous timeline.

I remembered her subtle digs, the stolen moments, the way she'd mimic me, then twist things until I looked like the villain, the prestigious internship I lost, the friendships she sabotaged, the reputation she systematically destroyed.

My blood ran cold, then hot with a fury born of knowing exactly what she was.

How could I be back here, forced to endure this slow-motion psychological torture all over again?

The sheer unfairness of facing her again, knowing the devastation she' d leave in her wake, was almost unbearable.

But deep within me, the old Ash – the one who was kind, accommodating, and always gave the benefit of the doubt – was gone, poisoned out of existence by Brianna's venom.

This time, things would be drastically different.

The game was on, and though she thought she held all the cards, I knew the rules now.

I had a lifetime of future knowledge, and this time, the winner wouldn't be Brianna.

My future was finally mine to reclaim.

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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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