My Amnesia Prank: His Betrayal, My True Love

My Amnesia Prank: His Betrayal, My True Love

Gavin

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A minor car crash on the way home, just a fender bender, and that's when a wild idea sparked in my mind. I decided to prank my boyfriend, Michael, by feigning amnesia. "And who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, waiting for him to play along. Instead, his charming smile faltered, replaced by a calculating glint I'd never seen. He pulled out his phone, dialed his friend Alex, and whispered, "Sarah hit her head. She' s got amnesia. You're Liam, her boyfriend. I'm Mark, your best friend." My breath hitched. Then, I overheard him lower his voice, "Tiffany's already texting me. She' s so much less drama than Sarah, so high-maintenance." My heart hammered with a sickening lurch. I was just a discarded game piece, a convenient escape for him to run off with my own sorority sister. His betrayal was swift and brutal, a public humiliation he orchestrated with chilling ease. But as I played along, Michael' s supposed "pawn," Alex, treated me with an unexpected, gentle kindness that completely contradicted everything Michael had said. He didn't act like someone who found me boring. He saw me, defended me, and his eyes held a depth Michael' s never had. Was this simply a cruel charade, or was there an unexpected truth hidden within this deception? They thought I was a puppet, easily manipulated and rendered clueless. They had no idea. If Michael wanted to play a game, I decided then and there, I would play too – but by my rules, and I would expose every single one of their lies.

Introduction

A minor car crash on the way home, just a fender bender, and that's when a wild idea sparked in my mind.

I decided to prank my boyfriend, Michael, by feigning amnesia.

"And who are you?" I asked, feigning confusion, waiting for him to play along.

Instead, his charming smile faltered, replaced by a calculating glint I'd never seen.

He pulled out his phone, dialed his friend Alex, and whispered, "Sarah hit her head. She' s got amnesia. You're Liam, her boyfriend. I'm Mark, your best friend."

My breath hitched.

Then, I overheard him lower his voice, "Tiffany's already texting me. She' s so much less drama than Sarah, so high-maintenance."

My heart hammered with a sickening lurch.

I was just a discarded game piece, a convenient escape for him to run off with my own sorority sister.

His betrayal was swift and brutal, a public humiliation he orchestrated with chilling ease.

But as I played along, Michael' s supposed "pawn," Alex, treated me with an unexpected, gentle kindness that completely contradicted everything Michael had said.

He didn't act like someone who found me boring.

He saw me, defended me, and his eyes held a depth Michael' s never had.

Was this simply a cruel charade, or was there an unexpected truth hidden within this deception?

They thought I was a puppet, easily manipulated and rendered clueless.

They had no idea.

If Michael wanted to play a game, I decided then and there, I would play too – but by my rules, and I would expose every single one of their lies.

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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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