A Mother's Cold Revenge

A Mother's Cold Revenge

Xie Huan

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I was dying of colon cancer in a hospice, all my $150,000 savings for retirement and my son, Ethan, almost gone. Ethan cried, telling me his girlfriend, Chloe, stole every penny for a luxury condo. I believed him completely. My hatred for that "gold-digger" burned hotter than my cancer. In my final hours, I called the police, determined to ruin Chloe for letting me die disgraced. I died filled with pure, unadulterated hate. My last thought was of her painful demise. How could she betray a dying woman so cruelly? The injustice was unbearable. Then I gasped, not in the hospice, but in my own living room, alive and whole. The doorbell chimed-the day I first met Chloe. And as she entered, I heard her innermost thoughts: "I hope she likes this locket; Ethan said she only respects expensive brands." My rage short-circuited. Ethan had lied. My son was the monster. I was back, with a chilling chance to make him pay.

Introduction

I was dying of colon cancer in a hospice, all my $150,000 savings for retirement and my son, Ethan, almost gone.

Ethan cried, telling me his girlfriend, Chloe, stole every penny for a luxury condo. I believed him completely.

My hatred for that "gold-digger" burned hotter than my cancer. In my final hours, I called the police, determined to ruin Chloe for letting me die disgraced.

I died filled with pure, unadulterated hate.

My last thought was of her painful demise. How could she betray a dying woman so cruelly? The injustice was unbearable.

Then I gasped, not in the hospice, but in my own living room, alive and whole. The doorbell chimed-the day I first met Chloe. And as she entered, I heard her innermost thoughts: "I hope she likes this locket; Ethan said she only respects expensive brands."

My rage short-circuited. Ethan had lied. My son was the monster. I was back, with a chilling chance to make him pay.

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Ten Years a Lie

Ten Years a Lie

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My husband, David, and I had been married for ten years, a perfect New York power couple on the outside, a carefully constructed lie within. I used his money, he had his affairs, even a secret child. Our lives ran on parallel tracks, never interfering. It was a cold, silent agreement. Then the school called. An accident. Acid. My son, Liam. I rushed to the nurse's office. Liam was pale, a raw burn on his cheek and neck. Another woman, impeccably dressed, stood there, bored. Olivia Chen, socialite extraordinaire. David's mistress. She offered me a check. "My Leo said it was an accident. Boys will be boys. This should be enough to cover the medical bills and keep you quiet." Then her phone rang. It was David. "Yes, I' m handling the other boy' s mother now," she cooed. My husband was concerned for his mistress and their illegitimate son, not ours. The bracelet on Olivia's wrist, an emerald-studded Miller family heirloom, meant for David's wife, for me, shimmered mockingly. My hand went to my phone. David's voicemail. Again. Nothing. My son was hurt, and my husband wouldn't answer. This wasn't anger; it was a cold, hard hatred. A rage that had simmered for a decade, now boiling over. My family, almost ruined. The Millers saved them, but the price was my marriage to David. He didn't want me; he wanted the inheritance clause in the Miller family trust. His firstborn child would control the bulk of the fortune on their tenth birthday. Liam' s tenth birthday was in three days. In three days, the trust would activate. Liam would be in control. I looked from my son's pained face to the arrogant woman wearing my legacy. A cold calm settled over me. Let them have their moment. Their last three days of freedom.

When Friends Become Your Cruelest Foes

When Friends Become Your Cruelest Foes

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5.0

"Lily, you should do it," Tiffany Hayes purred, her eyes fixed on me in the art academy' s lounge. As the scholarship student, managing our class' s two-million-dollar art fund seemed like a twisted honor, a responsibility the elite kids conveniently dodged. Three years later, at our graduation exhibition-the night my life' s work was finally displayed-my childhood friend, Mark Miller, seized the microphone. "Our class art fund has been mismanaged," he announced, his gaze piercing me. "One point eight million dollars is missing." The dreams I had meticulously built shattered. Every eye in the buzzing gallery turned to me, judging, accusing. Tiffany, Mark' s girlfriend, stood by his side, her feigned sympathy a cold knife twisting inside me. They stripped me bare, painting me a thief, a public spectacle. "I have records of everything," I insisted. "Every dollar is accounted for!" But the projection screen behind him flashed a balance of $1,250.34, sealing my fate. "Just tell us what you did with the money," Tiffany cooed, trying to lure out a confession. "We were friends." Friends? Their betrayal burned hotter than any accusation. They had done this. Set me up. Framed me. The rage and humiliation were suffocating, but a cold resolve began to crystallize within me. They thought they had broken me, but they had just ignited a fire. I walked out of the gallery that night, not in defeat, but with a fierce determination. I would find the truth. I would expose them. And they would pay.

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