Beyond the Fairytale Facade

Beyond the Fairytale Facade

Gavin

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My fiancé, tech mogul Ethan Reed, and I were the epitome of New York City's fairytale romance. For ten years, our "perfect love story" graced billboards and magazine covers, culminating in the highly anticipated "wedding of the decade." But my world shattered when I saw him. Through a discreet one-way observation window, I watched Ethan-my Ethan-in his penthouse office, engaged in graphic acts with his executive assistant, Chloe Vance. Her triumphant smirk, directed straight at me, made it clear: this wasn't an accident. The humiliation escalated into a relentless campaign of psychological torture. Chloe sent vile texts, explicit photos of them, even a horrific "penthouse tally" of used condoms she boasted they'd amassed while I lay sick. Meanwhile, Ethan played the doting fiancé, planning our wedding with sickening enthusiasm. I watched my Parisian bridal gown, custom-made for me, defiled as Chloe wore it, preening before Ethan, who then engaged in sordid acts with her in the fitting room. The ultimate affront came at my beloved mentor's funeral, where I caught them engaging in despicable acts, steps away from her casket. The city adored our love story, oblivious to the monstrous lies. My life, my integrity, everything felt like a grand, public fraud. How could anyone live such a public lie for so long? Why did everyone believe him, even as my world crumbled around me? But their cruelty didn't break me; it forged an icy resolve. I accepted a Federal Identity Relocation Service offer to disappear, to become Alex Parker. But before vanishing, I intended to ensure Ethan Reed's perfect world, and his public image, collapsed just as spectacularly as mine had. I meticulously collected every piece of evidence, every message, every video. The wedding of the decade would still happen. It just wouldn't be the one anyone expected.

Introduction

My fiancé, tech mogul Ethan Reed, and I were the epitome of New York City's fairytale romance.

For ten years, our "perfect love story" graced billboards and magazine covers, culminating in the highly anticipated "wedding of the decade."

But my world shattered when I saw him.

Through a discreet one-way observation window, I watched Ethan-my Ethan-in his penthouse office, engaged in graphic acts with his executive assistant, Chloe Vance.

Her triumphant smirk, directed straight at me, made it clear: this wasn't an accident.

The humiliation escalated into a relentless campaign of psychological torture.

Chloe sent vile texts, explicit photos of them, even a horrific "penthouse tally" of used condoms she boasted they'd amassed while I lay sick.

Meanwhile, Ethan played the doting fiancé, planning our wedding with sickening enthusiasm.

I watched my Parisian bridal gown, custom-made for me, defiled as Chloe wore it, preening before Ethan, who then engaged in sordid acts with her in the fitting room.

The ultimate affront came at my beloved mentor's funeral, where I caught them engaging in despicable acts, steps away from her casket.

The city adored our love story, oblivious to the monstrous lies.

My life, my integrity, everything felt like a grand, public fraud.

How could anyone live such a public lie for so long?

Why did everyone believe him, even as my world crumbled around me?

But their cruelty didn't break me; it forged an icy resolve.

I accepted a Federal Identity Relocation Service offer to disappear, to become Alex Parker.

But before vanishing, I intended to ensure Ethan Reed's perfect world, and his public image, collapsed just as spectacularly as mine had.

I meticulously collected every piece of evidence, every message, every video.

The wedding of the decade would still happen.

It just wouldn't be the one anyone expected.

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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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