The Decade She Reclaimed

The Decade She Reclaimed

Gavin

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The last thing I remembered was the screech of tires, followed by a blinding flash that swallowed the world. Ethan was at the wheel, his voice sharp with accusations about some film festival rejection he insisted was my fault. Then, an inexplicable void. I awoke to the familiar, comforting scent of cheap coffee and aged textbooks in my old college dorm room. My head throbbed, but it was the calendar on the wall that delivered the true shock: it was ten years ago. A full decade of my life, a lifetime of ambition, had been erased, yet the bitter aftermath lingered. I remembered postponing my prestigious architecture scholarship for him, endlessly pouring my youth into his perpetually failing film career. I recalled working two menial jobs, typing his screenplays, networking tirelessly on his behalf, all while my own dreams gathered dust. He consumed my time, my energy, my money, only to resent me when his "art" didn't instantly launch him to stardom. "You held me back," he'd always complained, "your practicality smothered my genius." The sheer unfairness of it all, the memory of a wasted decade, ignited a cold fury in my gut. How could I have been so utterly blind, so utterly foolish? But this time, the narrative would be mine. This time, there would be no sacrifices, no compromises, especially not for him. I packed a small bag with my architecture notes and left a single, decisive message on his cluttered desk: "Ethan, I'm done. Don't look for me." No explanation, no argument-just a quiet, resolute walk into my real future.

Introduction

The last thing I remembered was the screech of tires, followed by a blinding flash that swallowed the world.

Ethan was at the wheel, his voice sharp with accusations about some film festival rejection he insisted was my fault.

Then, an inexplicable void.

I awoke to the familiar, comforting scent of cheap coffee and aged textbooks in my old college dorm room.

My head throbbed, but it was the calendar on the wall that delivered the true shock: it was ten years ago.

A full decade of my life, a lifetime of ambition, had been erased, yet the bitter aftermath lingered.

I remembered postponing my prestigious architecture scholarship for him, endlessly pouring my youth into his perpetually failing film career.

I recalled working two menial jobs, typing his screenplays, networking tirelessly on his behalf, all while my own dreams gathered dust.

He consumed my time, my energy, my money, only to resent me when his "art" didn't instantly launch him to stardom.

"You held me back," he'd always complained, "your practicality smothered my genius."

The sheer unfairness of it all, the memory of a wasted decade, ignited a cold fury in my gut.

How could I have been so utterly blind, so utterly foolish?

But this time, the narrative would be mine.

This time, there would be no sacrifices, no compromises, especially not for him.

I packed a small bag with my architecture notes and left a single, decisive message on his cluttered desk: "Ethan, I'm done. Don't look for me."

No explanation, no argument-just a quiet, resolute walk into my real future.

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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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