No Longer Their ATM

No Longer Their ATM

Gavin

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Thanksgiving rush, the usual chaos of life with my daughter, Jessica. For years, I' d been their quiet support, their free childcare, their endless ATM. My late husband' s heroism left me one asset: our fully paid-off home. Then, a towering display of canned goods began to fall, directly on my grandson, Brayden. Without a thought, I shoved him clear, and the world went dark under a crushing weight. Instead of concern when I woke in the ER, dazed and concussed, my daughter Jessica' s voice cut through the fog. She wasn' t worried about my stitches, only Brayden' s scraped knee and her "ruined Thanksgiving." Then came the demand: While I was still hurting, Jessica, backed by Kevin' s sniveling mother, insisted I sign over my house. My house, the anchor my husband provided, their latest target. When I refused, their true colors showed. They locked me in my own former room, seizing my phone, a prisoner in my own daughter's house. My own flesh and blood, willing to go to such lengths-accusing me, then holding me captive-all for a piece of property. The betrayal was a deeper concussion than any physical blow. How could the daughter I raised, the grandson I saved, become instruments in such a cruel play? But as my son Michael and his wife Emily burst through the flimsy door, a cold clarity settled over me. This wasn't pity-this was war. I was done being their victim, their dogsbody, their endless resource. This was the moment I stopped being Sarah the doormat, and started fighting back for Sarah.

Introduction

Thanksgiving rush, the usual chaos of life with my daughter, Jessica.

For years, I' d been their quiet support, their free childcare, their endless ATM.

My late husband' s heroism left me one asset: our fully paid-off home.

Then, a towering display of canned goods began to fall, directly on my grandson, Brayden.

Without a thought, I shoved him clear, and the world went dark under a crushing weight.

Instead of concern when I woke in the ER, dazed and concussed, my daughter Jessica' s voice cut through the fog.

She wasn' t worried about my stitches, only Brayden' s scraped knee and her "ruined Thanksgiving."

Then came the demand: While I was still hurting, Jessica, backed by Kevin' s sniveling mother, insisted I sign over my house.

My house, the anchor my husband provided, their latest target.

When I refused, their true colors showed.

They locked me in my own former room, seizing my phone, a prisoner in my own daughter's house.

My own flesh and blood, willing to go to such lengths-accusing me, then holding me captive-all for a piece of property.

The betrayal was a deeper concussion than any physical blow.

How could the daughter I raised, the grandson I saved, become instruments in such a cruel play?

But as my son Michael and his wife Emily burst through the flimsy door, a cold clarity settled over me.

This wasn't pity-this was war.

I was done being their victim, their dogsbody, their endless resource.

This was the moment I stopped being Sarah the doormat, and started fighting back for Sarah.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Mafia

4.5

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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