The Sabotaged Wife

The Sabotaged Wife

Marnie Nomura

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My life as a promising architect shattered two years ago by a "skiing accident" that left me paralyzed. My charismatic husband, Ethan, installed smart home devices "for my safety," always smoothing over my dependence with a loving smile. Then, a blinking red light from a new smoke detector revealed his true intentions. It was a camera, and he was watching my every move. My stomach twisted when I found more, hidden everywhere, even as he was betraying me with his young marketing associate, Chloe-who was pregnant. He wasn't just watching me; he was planning to make me adopt their child, his "heir," leveraging my supposed inability to conceive after the "accident." He even brought Chloe into our home as my "personal assistant," her smug smile a constant torment. The surveillance wasn't for safety; it was to ensure my captivity. But the real horror struck at a gala when I stumbled, stood, and then overheard Ethan railing at a doctor about medication and therapies designed to keep me disabled. My "accident" wasn't an accident. He caused it, then actively sabotaged my recovery for two years. He wanted me broken, dependent, so he could control me and parade his mistress's baby as his own. My fury ignited into an undeniable resolve. He wanted a helpless wife? He got a woman ready to dismantle his entire world. I pulled out the burner phone I' d hidden for this very moment. My escape wasn't just a fantasy anymore; it was my next step.

Introduction

My life as a promising architect shattered two years ago by a "skiing accident" that left me paralyzed.

My charismatic husband, Ethan, installed smart home devices "for my safety," always smoothing over my dependence with a loving smile.

Then, a blinking red light from a new smoke detector revealed his true intentions.

It was a camera, and he was watching my every move.

My stomach twisted when I found more, hidden everywhere, even as he was betraying me with his young marketing associate, Chloe-who was pregnant.

He wasn't just watching me; he was planning to make me adopt their child, his "heir," leveraging my supposed inability to conceive after the "accident."

He even brought Chloe into our home as my "personal assistant," her smug smile a constant torment.

The surveillance wasn't for safety; it was to ensure my captivity.

But the real horror struck at a gala when I stumbled, stood, and then overheard Ethan railing at a doctor about medication and therapies designed to keep me disabled.

My "accident" wasn't an accident.

He caused it, then actively sabotaged my recovery for two years.

He wanted me broken, dependent, so he could control me and parade his mistress's baby as his own.

My fury ignited into an undeniable resolve.

He wanted a helpless wife?

He got a woman ready to dismantle his entire world.

I pulled out the burner phone I' d hidden for this very moment.

My escape wasn't just a fantasy anymore; it was my next step.

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Ten years. A decade of my life, meticulously built into a future with Liam, complete with a secret I was about to reveal: two thin blue lines on a test stick. Then my phone buzzed, a live video from Chloe-his old muse, the ghost I could never banish. And there he was, leaning against his Mustang at an illegal street race, Chloe' s arm looped through his, her voice purring, "Look who I've got with me… He said he' d win this race for me." My carefully constructed world shattered, the beautiful dinner, the white rose, the secret blooming inside me, all felt like a cruel joke. Every therapy session, every late-night talk, every time I' d pulled him back from the brink, mocked by her triumphant smirk as she declared, "Some people just spend their lives cleaning up messes... We make the beautiful messes." The subtle scent of her cloying perfume clung to him when he finally came home, a stark contrast to his flimsy excuses. And then, the next morning, I found it – a pot of beef soup simmering on our stove, made with peanuts, an ingredient that could kill me, prepared for her. The final insult came in the form of a field of white roses, delivered to our home, a grand gesture of apology meant not for me, but for his "wildfire" Chloe. He had called me "Ava," someone who "takes care of things," a mere housekeeper to his grand, destructive passion. But I was done burning. With a single, one-way ticket in hand, and the sound of his whispered endearments to Chloe echoing in my ears, I made a choice that morning: I wasn't just leaving him, I was reclaiming myself.

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