Escape From His Perfect Lie

Escape From His Perfect Lie

Gavin

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Everyone envied my life. I was Sarah Miller, the picture-perfect wife of high-tech CEO Ethan Hayes – a modern power couple, constantly featured in glossy magazines. Publicly, he was my adoring husband, showering me with grand gestures. It looked like a dream. But behind the scenes, I discovered a nightmare. Hidden on his private cloud, disguised as corporate files, were explicit photos and messages. My husband, Ethan, and his ambitious Head of Communications, Chloe Vance. He called me "The Anchor," his "dutiful, boring wife," a deadweight holding him back. When confronted, he didn' t deny; he gaslighted. "You' re just stressed, Sarah. After everything I' ve done." He weaponized my father' s illness, reminding me how he' d "saved" me, built "this life for us," how I "owed" him. The betrayal was no momentary lapse; it was a brazen, parallel life, constantly flaunted by Chloe' s smug social media posts. I realized I was suffocating in a beautiful, empty museum, a gilded cage. His "sacrifices" and "kindnesses" weren't love; they were chains. He twisted my vulnerability into perpetual debt. The man the world adored was a monster, and my "perfect" life was a suffocating lie. How could I escape? Then, a thick envelope arrived. A letter from an estranged, wealthy grandmother I barely knew, naming me the beneficiary of a colossal family trust. This was it. My way out. I was done being his accessory. I was done being Sarah Hayes.

Introduction

Everyone envied my life.

I was Sarah Miller, the picture-perfect wife of high-tech CEO Ethan Hayes – a modern power couple, constantly featured in glossy magazines.

Publicly, he was my adoring husband, showering me with grand gestures. It looked like a dream.

But behind the scenes, I discovered a nightmare.

Hidden on his private cloud, disguised as corporate files, were explicit photos and messages.

My husband, Ethan, and his ambitious Head of Communications, Chloe Vance.

He called me "The Anchor," his "dutiful, boring wife," a deadweight holding him back.

When confronted, he didn' t deny; he gaslighted.

"You' re just stressed, Sarah. After everything I' ve done." He weaponized my father' s illness, reminding me how he' d "saved" me, built "this life for us," how I "owed" him.

The betrayal was no momentary lapse; it was a brazen, parallel life, constantly flaunted by Chloe' s smug social media posts.

I realized I was suffocating in a beautiful, empty museum, a gilded cage.

His "sacrifices" and "kindnesses" weren't love; they were chains. He twisted my vulnerability into perpetual debt.

The man the world adored was a monster, and my "perfect" life was a suffocating lie. How could I escape?

Then, a thick envelope arrived.

A letter from an estranged, wealthy grandmother I barely knew, naming me the beneficiary of a colossal family trust. This was it. My way out.

I was done being his accessory.

I was done being Sarah Hayes.

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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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