The Fortune He Never Knew

The Fortune He Never Knew

Gavin

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Our Maui anniversary trip was set. For years, I' d quietly funded my husband Mark' s tech startup, even his mother' s expensive cancer treatment. He thought I was just "Sarah Miller," unassuming, never guessing my father owned vast vineyards and luxury resorts. Then, at the airport, he canceled our trip. An 'investor crisis,' he claimed. My gut screamed suspicion. I checked Instagram: my au pair' s daughter, Tiffany, wearing my designer dress, passionately kissing Mark in my living room, captioned 'My man knows how to treat his queen!' I drove home to find a raging party. Mark was kissing Tiffany. When confronted, he called me a 'crazy ex.' Tiffany shrieked they' d been 'soulmates for two years.' Her friends mocked, assaulted me, tearing my dress. My au pair (also in my stolen clothes) sneered, calling me 'the help.' They then launched a brutal online campaign, leaking my private photos, twisted to accuse me of infidelity, securing donations. Mark demanded I sign divorce papers, abandoning everything. How could the man whose entire world I secretly built betray me so completely? How could they weaponize my private moments, twisting every truth? The public shaming, the injustice, felt suffocating. But I held a secret they never knew. So, I signed those papers, conceding everything. They believed I was broken, defeated. But they were wrong. My father had always called my true identity a 'trump card.' It was finally time to play it.

Introduction

Our Maui anniversary trip was set.

For years, I' d quietly funded my husband Mark' s tech startup, even his mother' s expensive cancer treatment.

He thought I was just "Sarah Miller," unassuming, never guessing my father owned vast vineyards and luxury resorts.

Then, at the airport, he canceled our trip.

An 'investor crisis,' he claimed.

My gut screamed suspicion.

I checked Instagram: my au pair' s daughter, Tiffany, wearing my designer dress, passionately kissing Mark in my living room, captioned 'My man knows how to treat his queen!'

I drove home to find a raging party.

Mark was kissing Tiffany.

When confronted, he called me a 'crazy ex.'

Tiffany shrieked they' d been 'soulmates for two years.'

Her friends mocked, assaulted me, tearing my dress.

My au pair (also in my stolen clothes) sneered, calling me 'the help.'

They then launched a brutal online campaign, leaking my private photos, twisted to accuse me of infidelity, securing donations.

Mark demanded I sign divorce papers, abandoning everything.

How could the man whose entire world I secretly built betray me so completely?

How could they weaponize my private moments, twisting every truth?

The public shaming, the injustice, felt suffocating.

But I held a secret they never knew.

So, I signed those papers, conceding everything.

They believed I was broken, defeated.

But they were wrong.

My father had always called my true identity a 'trump card.'

It was finally time to play it.

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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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