You Can't Sell What's Priceless: Her $200M Bid

You Can't Sell What's Priceless: Her $200M Bid

Gavin

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My husband, Mark Vance, built a tech empire from our garage – mostly with my money, my ideas, and my tireless support. We were the Silicon Valley power couple, or so I thought. Tonight, at a lavish charity gala, I planned to buy him a special anniversary gift, a rare NFT. My paddle was raised, ready to bid. Then, I watched in horror as Mark, smirking, used our joint high-limit credit card to snatch the very same NFT – not for me, not for us, but for Tiffany Hayes, his flashy ex-girlfriend, right across the room. My blood ran cold, but my mind was clearer than ever. I quietly froze our joint card, watching Tiffany's public meltdown as her payment for our NFT was declined. Mark was furious, his fake smiles turning chillingly real. He then twisted my arm into a "business trip" to a lavish private island, only to drug me upon arrival. I woke up disoriented, locked in a luxurious cage. Then I found myself on a stage, an auctioneer booming about selling me – my "services" and "future commitments" – to a room full of leering strangers. He announced all our assets were liquid, offshore, and now "his." The man I built, the man I trusted, was auctioning off my life, my dignity, as payback for a declined credit card. Was this truly the depths of his betrayal? The ultimate degradation? But as despair threatened to swallow me, a flicker of memory, a whisper from my grandmother, ignited a cold, hard rage. He thought he broke me. He thought he had won. He had no idea what I was truly capable of. With my voice steady and clear, I looked him in the eye and made my own bid: "$200 million. I'm buying myself."

Introduction

My husband, Mark Vance, built a tech empire from our garage – mostly with my money, my ideas, and my tireless support.

We were the Silicon Valley power couple, or so I thought.

Tonight, at a lavish charity gala, I planned to buy him a special anniversary gift, a rare NFT.

My paddle was raised, ready to bid.

Then, I watched in horror as Mark, smirking, used our joint high-limit credit card to snatch the very same NFT – not for me, not for us, but for Tiffany Hayes, his flashy ex-girlfriend, right across the room.

My blood ran cold, but my mind was clearer than ever.

I quietly froze our joint card, watching Tiffany's public meltdown as her payment for our NFT was declined.

Mark was furious, his fake smiles turning chillingly real.

He then twisted my arm into a "business trip" to a lavish private island, only to drug me upon arrival.

I woke up disoriented, locked in a luxurious cage.

Then I found myself on a stage, an auctioneer booming about selling me – my "services" and "future commitments" – to a room full of leering strangers.

He announced all our assets were liquid, offshore, and now "his."

The man I built, the man I trusted, was auctioning off my life, my dignity, as payback for a declined credit card.

Was this truly the depths of his betrayal? The ultimate degradation?

But as despair threatened to swallow me, a flicker of memory, a whisper from my grandmother, ignited a cold, hard rage.

He thought he broke me.

He thought he had won.

He had no idea what I was truly capable of.

With my voice steady and clear, I looked him in the eye and made my own bid: "$200 million. I'm buying myself."

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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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