His Love, Her Blinding Hate

His Love, Her Blinding Hate

Gavin

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Ava Monroe. For five years, my marriage to Ethan Hayes was a bitter war, not a union. I publicly loathed him, clinging to my childhood sweetheart Liam, convinced Ethan was the villain in my life. Then, the unimaginable happened: Ethan died, stabbed by a masked intruder. His desperate, dying call? I dismissed it, hanging up my phone, thinking it just another attempt at control. But death didn't stop him; for five agonizing days, he was back, a visible, tangible spirit. Liam' s insidious whispers fueled my contempt, convincing me Ethan' s ghostly return was merely another manipulative game. I accused him of staging attacks, forced him to kneel publicly, and even held his head underwater in our pool, demanding confessions for lies. At a grand gala, after I slapped him for a supposed poisoning concocted by Liam, Ethan finally broke, slapping me back with a raw, desperate love in his eyes that I was too numb to see. He then vanished, leaving only a final, haunting note. I thought I was finally free, but the ensuing silence grew louder than any conflict. Until I found his horrifically decomposed body and that letter, detailing a fantastical "Gatekeeper," a five-day reprieve, and how my own icy "I will never love you" had sealed his fate. My world didn't just shatter; it exploded, revealing that I had inadvertently killed the man who had secretly loved me. With chilling clarity, the pieces clicked into place: Liam' s "sympathy," his manufactured chaos, his constant poisoning of my mind. He was the architect of Ethan's murder, the true monster, the puppet master of my destruction. My grief transmuted into a glacial rage, as Liam thought my husband's death cleared his path to me, yet he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

Introduction

Ava Monroe. For five years, my marriage to Ethan Hayes was a bitter war, not a union.

I publicly loathed him, clinging to my childhood sweetheart Liam, convinced Ethan was the villain in my life.

Then, the unimaginable happened: Ethan died, stabbed by a masked intruder.

His desperate, dying call? I dismissed it, hanging up my phone, thinking it just another attempt at control.

But death didn't stop him; for five agonizing days, he was back, a visible, tangible spirit.

Liam' s insidious whispers fueled my contempt, convincing me Ethan' s ghostly return was merely another manipulative game.

I accused him of staging attacks, forced him to kneel publicly, and even held his head underwater in our pool, demanding confessions for lies.

At a grand gala, after I slapped him for a supposed poisoning concocted by Liam, Ethan finally broke, slapping me back with a raw, desperate love in his eyes that I was too numb to see.

He then vanished, leaving only a final, haunting note.

I thought I was finally free, but the ensuing silence grew louder than any conflict.

Until I found his horrifically decomposed body and that letter, detailing a fantastical "Gatekeeper," a five-day reprieve, and how my own icy "I will never love you" had sealed his fate.

My world didn't just shatter; it exploded, revealing that I had inadvertently killed the man who had secretly loved me.

With chilling clarity, the pieces clicked into place: Liam' s "sympathy," his manufactured chaos, his constant poisoning of my mind.

He was the architect of Ethan's murder, the true monster, the puppet master of my destruction.

My grief transmuted into a glacial rage, as Liam thought my husband's death cleared his path to me, yet he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

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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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