Second Chance at Yale

Second Chance at Yale

Gavin

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My life was a perfect fairytale, or so I thought. Born into old money, I was the golden girl who married Yale University's campus prince, Liam Vanderbilt. Two years into our blissful marriage, I quit my job, ready to start the family we'd always dreamed of. Then, Liam announced a year-long project in London, barely coming home to pack. I missed him terribly, barraging him with texts, but only met with silence. My best friend, Chloe, delivered the crushing news: Liam' s old flame, Serena Dubois, was back from Paris and working in his London office. Then Liam' s assistant confirmed: the new Vice President, familiar with Europe, accompanied him – a woman. My worst fears confirmed, I lay in bed, the realization hitting me like a punch: Liam's private Instagram account, a shrine to a girl from his prep school, Serena. He didn't just leave, he left for his first love, the jet named after me presumably carrying her. I was suffering through fertility treatments, waiting for him, while he was with her. My dream of a baby, our perfect life, shattered by his betrayal. Why marry me if he only truly loved her? Then I woke up, sweating, to a message from Liam. My desperate "I want a divorce" text received only one two-word response: "Fine." He didn't beg, he didn't explain. He just agreed. The only jet available to follow him to London was 'The Hailey,' the one he gifted me. Then I collapsed. When I opened my eyes, I was back on Yale's Old Campus, the day I first tried to ask Liam out. He stood before me, arrogant and young, wearing the Rolex I knew was Serena' s gift. I remembered his cutting rejection from my past life, and the thought of reliving that humiliation made me sick. But this time, I wouldn't let him break me. This time, I was getting off this rollercoaster before it even started.

Introduction

My life was a perfect fairytale, or so I thought.

Born into old money, I was the golden girl who married Yale University's campus prince, Liam Vanderbilt.

Two years into our blissful marriage, I quit my job, ready to start the family we'd always dreamed of.

Then, Liam announced a year-long project in London, barely coming home to pack.

I missed him terribly, barraging him with texts, but only met with silence.

My best friend, Chloe, delivered the crushing news: Liam' s old flame, Serena Dubois, was back from Paris and working in his London office.

Then Liam' s assistant confirmed: the new Vice President, familiar with Europe, accompanied him – a woman.

My worst fears confirmed, I lay in bed, the realization hitting me like a punch: Liam's private Instagram account, a shrine to a girl from his prep school, Serena.

He didn't just leave, he left for his first love, the jet named after me presumably carrying her.

I was suffering through fertility treatments, waiting for him, while he was with her.

My dream of a baby, our perfect life, shattered by his betrayal.

Why marry me if he only truly loved her?

Then I woke up, sweating, to a message from Liam.

My desperate "I want a divorce" text received only one two-word response: "Fine."

He didn't beg, he didn't explain.

He just agreed.

The only jet available to follow him to London was 'The Hailey,' the one he gifted me.

Then I collapsed.

When I opened my eyes, I was back on Yale's Old Campus, the day I first tried to ask Liam out.

He stood before me, arrogant and young, wearing the Rolex I knew was Serena' s gift.

I remembered his cutting rejection from my past life, and the thought of reliving that humiliation made me sick.

But this time, I wouldn't let him break me.

This time, I was getting off this rollercoaster before it even started.

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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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