The Divorce He Didn't See

The Divorce He Didn't See

Gavin

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My husband, Mark, GreenScape' s CEO, always prioritized his ambition, and I quietly supported him, sacrificing my own dreams. I meticulously managed our flagship Willow Creek project, pouring months of my life into it. Mark claimed to be in Boulder for a crucial zoning appeal. But then, an Instagram post shattered that illusion: Mark, playing 'eco-warrior' in Denver with Ashley, our new coordinator, her hand on his arm, a gushing caption highlighting her initiative. I "liked" the post. Immediately, Mark called, furious, accusing me of mocking Ashley and ordering me to retract it. Later, Ashley posted a victim statement on our company portal, subtly implicating me. Mark demanded a public apology, threatening to pull me from Willow Creek. My colleagues turned away. Mocking her? I, who truly understood hard work, was being gaslit by a man who dismissed my severe allergies as "drama." The blatant threats, years of neglect, and casual disregard for our marriage solidified into one cold, unyielding truth. This wasn't about an Instagram post; it was about him. They expected an apology, me to grovel. I closed the portal, a quiet, chilling resolve settling in. Little did Mark or Ashley know, my escape plan was already set. Our divorce papers were signed months ago-by him-back when he was too consumed by Ashley' s manufactured crises to even notice. My real project was complete. It was time for his world to unravel.

Introduction

My husband, Mark, GreenScape' s CEO, always prioritized his ambition, and I quietly supported him, sacrificing my own dreams.

I meticulously managed our flagship Willow Creek project, pouring months of my life into it.

Mark claimed to be in Boulder for a crucial zoning appeal.

But then, an Instagram post shattered that illusion: Mark, playing 'eco-warrior' in Denver with Ashley, our new coordinator, her hand on his arm, a gushing caption highlighting her initiative.

I "liked" the post. Immediately, Mark called, furious, accusing me of mocking Ashley and ordering me to retract it.

Later, Ashley posted a victim statement on our company portal, subtly implicating me.

Mark demanded a public apology, threatening to pull me from Willow Creek. My colleagues turned away.

Mocking her?

I, who truly understood hard work, was being gaslit by a man who dismissed my severe allergies as "drama."

The blatant threats, years of neglect, and casual disregard for our marriage solidified into one cold, unyielding truth.

This wasn't about an Instagram post; it was about him.

They expected an apology, me to grovel.

I closed the portal, a quiet, chilling resolve settling in. Little did Mark or Ashley know, my escape plan was already set.

Our divorce papers were signed months ago-by him-back when he was too consumed by Ashley' s manufactured crises to even notice.

My real project was complete. It was time for his world to unravel.

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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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