Genuine Love Found

Genuine Love Found

Gavin

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My whole life had been a meticulous climb. Every blueprint, every award, every late night was for one person. Isabelle Vance, the golden daughter of a political dynasty, my childhood sweetheart I swore to marry. Winning the prestigious Thornton Prize was supposed to be our moment, the culmination of years, the validation I needed to finally propose. But at the gala celebrating my success, she arrived on her cousin Spence' s arm. Her eyes barely met mine, and when I confronted her, she delivered a chilling public dismissal. "That was just a silly, youthful understanding, Ethan," she declared, her voice cold and clear, echoing through the hushed ballroom. My world shattered publicly. Confused and heartbroken, I tried to cling to hope, but she pulled further away, always with Spence. Then, her engagement party-not to me, but to him. When I begged for an explanation, she slapped me, hissing, "Leave and never contact me again." Her powerful father orchestrated my exile to a remote, struggling region, burying me professionally. There, fighting pneumonia and despair after a life-threatening accident, Spence sent me a cruel wedding album of him and Izzy, beaming, meant as a final taunt. I lay there, convinced I was dying, wondering: how could the woman I dedicated my life to betray me so utterly? Why was I tossed aside like trash, my achievements meaningless, my love a joke? Was I just a "project" to them, unworthy of their world? The injustice burned deeper than any fever. But from the brink of death, a park ranger named Clara found me. She didn't care about my past, my ambition, or the Vances. She taught me what genuine love was, healing my body and soul. Now, years later, I'm back in Boston, not as a broken man, but with a family forged in resilience. And it's time to finally put the past, and Isabelle, to rest.

Introduction

My whole life had been a meticulous climb.

Every blueprint, every award, every late night was for one person.

Isabelle Vance, the golden daughter of a political dynasty, my childhood sweetheart I swore to marry.

Winning the prestigious Thornton Prize was supposed to be our moment, the culmination of years, the validation I needed to finally propose.

But at the gala celebrating my success, she arrived on her cousin Spence' s arm.

Her eyes barely met mine, and when I confronted her, she delivered a chilling public dismissal.

"That was just a silly, youthful understanding, Ethan," she declared, her voice cold and clear, echoing through the hushed ballroom.

My world shattered publicly.

Confused and heartbroken, I tried to cling to hope, but she pulled further away, always with Spence.

Then, her engagement party-not to me, but to him.

When I begged for an explanation, she slapped me, hissing, "Leave and never contact me again."

Her powerful father orchestrated my exile to a remote, struggling region, burying me professionally.

There, fighting pneumonia and despair after a life-threatening accident, Spence sent me a cruel wedding album of him and Izzy, beaming, meant as a final taunt.

I lay there, convinced I was dying, wondering: how could the woman I dedicated my life to betray me so utterly?

Why was I tossed aside like trash, my achievements meaningless, my love a joke?

Was I just a "project" to them, unworthy of their world?

The injustice burned deeper than any fever.

But from the brink of death, a park ranger named Clara found me.

She didn't care about my past, my ambition, or the Vances.

She taught me what genuine love was, healing my body and soul.

Now, years later, I'm back in Boston, not as a broken man, but with a family forged in resilience.

And it's time to finally put the past, and Isabelle, to rest.

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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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