The Price of Devotion: His Other Woman's Lies

The Price of Devotion: His Other Woman's Lies

Gavin

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I was Sarah Miller, Marcus Thorne' s wife, a public asset in his gleaming empire. Our life, from galas to high-stakes business, was a meticulously crafted facade. But Marcus' s true devotion was reserved for Vivian Hayes, his late partner' s widow and mother of his son, Leo. He canceled our feverish daughter Lily' s doctor' s appointment because Leo had a "sniffle." He fired a man for upsetting Vivian. I was always the shield, absorbing his neglect, but the line blurred when I confronted him about Vivian' s abuse of Lily. He didn' t just dismiss it; he raised his hand. Not at me, but at our own daughter. He slapped Lily, a sharp, sickening crack across her small cheek. Time stopped. Lily cried out, a small, choked sound. Marcus, his face a mask of cold indifference, simply muttered about "respecting Vivian." Later that night, reeking of Vivian' s cloying perfume, he attempted a reconciliation, only to abandon me again when she called with another supposed "panic attack." My little girl, her cheek still red, crept into my room, quietly, heartbreakingly. Her small hand found mine. "Mommy," she whispered, her voice clear despite the pain, "He' s left us for her a hundred times." Her words, old with a child' s painful wisdom, finally shattered the last, desperate shred of my endurance and hope. The final piece of my former self crumbled to dust. She looked at me, her eyes resolute. "Let' s go. We don' t need him." And in that moment, as she clung to me, I knew this wasn't just about escape. We wouldn't just leave quietly. No. We would make them pay. All of them.

Introduction

I was Sarah Miller, Marcus Thorne' s wife, a public asset in his gleaming empire.

Our life, from galas to high-stakes business, was a meticulously crafted facade.

But Marcus' s true devotion was reserved for Vivian Hayes, his late partner' s widow and mother of his son, Leo.

He canceled our feverish daughter Lily' s doctor' s appointment because Leo had a "sniffle."

He fired a man for upsetting Vivian.

I was always the shield, absorbing his neglect, but the line blurred when I confronted him about Vivian' s abuse of Lily.

He didn' t just dismiss it; he raised his hand. Not at me, but at our own daughter.

He slapped Lily, a sharp, sickening crack across her small cheek.

Time stopped.

Lily cried out, a small, choked sound.

Marcus, his face a mask of cold indifference, simply muttered about "respecting Vivian."

Later that night, reeking of Vivian' s cloying perfume, he attempted a reconciliation, only to abandon me again when she called with another supposed "panic attack."

My little girl, her cheek still red, crept into my room, quietly, heartbreakingly.

Her small hand found mine.

"Mommy," she whispered, her voice clear despite the pain, "He' s left us for her a hundred times."

Her words, old with a child' s painful wisdom, finally shattered the last, desperate shred of my endurance and hope. The final piece of my former self crumbled to dust.

She looked at me, her eyes resolute.

"Let' s go. We don' t need him."

And in that moment, as she clung to me, I knew this wasn't just about escape.

We wouldn't just leave quietly. No. We would make them pay.

All of them.

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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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