When Charity Turns Deadly

When Charity Turns Deadly

Gavin

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The last thing I saw was the Chicago skyline rushing up to meet me. Then, merciful darkness. Now, blinding sunlight streamed through a window, hitting my face as I lay in my university dorm room. My head throbbed with a pain far deeper than a physical fall. It was the brutal, horrifying memory of my parents, David and Susan Miller. Their kind faces, now hauntingly overlaid with images of their blood on the polished floors of our beautiful Chicago home. They were murdered. And the architect of that devastation? Brittany Evans, the very scholarship student my generous parents had taken under their wing, hailed as their "charity case." Her smile, so sickeningly sweet and fake, her boyfriend Spike's cruel, calculating eyes, haunted my every waking thought. She had meticulously orchestrated their downfall: the forged will, the baseless accusations leveled against me. I endured the looks of disgust, the complete abandonment from everyone I had ever known. The crushing despair consumed me, pushing me to the desperate, final leap. How could such an act of profound kindness be repaid with such heinous betrayal and wanton violence? How could I have been utterly blind, so incredibly naive, to allow my entire family, my entire life, to be so mercilessly dismantled, ending in that horrific, unjust way for all of us? The injustice burned. But then, I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. My hands flew to my throat, my chest. I was whole. Alive. It was the first week of freshman year. Again. I had been granted a second chance, and this time, a cold, unyielding rage, something I' d never felt in my first, naive life, settled deep in my bones. Brittany Evans would not win.

Introduction

The last thing I saw was the Chicago skyline rushing up to meet me.

Then, merciful darkness.

Now, blinding sunlight streamed through a window, hitting my face as I lay in my university dorm room.

My head throbbed with a pain far deeper than a physical fall.

It was the brutal, horrifying memory of my parents, David and Susan Miller.

Their kind faces, now hauntingly overlaid with images of their blood on the polished floors of our beautiful Chicago home.

They were murdered.

And the architect of that devastation?

Brittany Evans, the very scholarship student my generous parents had taken under their wing, hailed as their "charity case."

Her smile, so sickeningly sweet and fake, her boyfriend Spike's cruel, calculating eyes, haunted my every waking thought.

She had meticulously orchestrated their downfall: the forged will, the baseless accusations leveled against me.

I endured the looks of disgust, the complete abandonment from everyone I had ever known.

The crushing despair consumed me, pushing me to the desperate, final leap.

How could such an act of profound kindness be repaid with such heinous betrayal and wanton violence?

How could I have been utterly blind, so incredibly naive, to allow my entire family, my entire life, to be so mercilessly dismantled, ending in that horrific, unjust way for all of us?

The injustice burned.

But then, I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air.

My hands flew to my throat, my chest.

I was whole.

Alive.

It was the first week of freshman year.

Again.

I had been granted a second chance, and this time, a cold, unyielding rage, something I' d never felt in my first, naive life, settled deep in my bones.

Brittany Evans would not win.

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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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