The Gilded Cage I Escaped

The Gilded Cage I Escaped

Gavin

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The media called my wedding to Damian Blackwood a modern Cinderella story. They didn' t know it was a gilded cage, and I was the bird about to be locked inside. As I stood in my bridal suite, my sister Jessica walked in, her husband Leo trailing behind. Her eyes raked over my expensive dress, and a look of pure acid twisted her face. "It should have been me," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Then, with a wildness I hadn' t seen, she whispered, "You stole my life, Amy." Something sharp and cold pressed into my stomach, a silver letter opener. Warmth bloomed across my white dress as my legs gave out, and darkness swallowed me. I died, bleeding on the floor, the last thing I saw Jessica' s horrified face. But then I woke up, not on the plush carpet of a Hamptons bridal suite, but in my childhood bed, years earlier. The lumpy mattress, the stained floral wallpaper, the year on the calendar-it was all wrong. Then Jessica walked in, wearing that cheap dress, with the same resentful ambition in her eyes. She knew. She was back, too, and declared, "This time, the life of a billionaire' s wife is mine!" I knew how that story ended. Let her have him.

Introduction

The media called my wedding to Damian Blackwood a modern Cinderella story.

They didn' t know it was a gilded cage, and I was the bird about to be locked inside.

As I stood in my bridal suite, my sister Jessica walked in, her husband Leo trailing behind.

Her eyes raked over my expensive dress, and a look of pure acid twisted her face.

"It should have been me," she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

Then, with a wildness I hadn' t seen, she whispered, "You stole my life, Amy."

Something sharp and cold pressed into my stomach, a silver letter opener.

Warmth bloomed across my white dress as my legs gave out, and darkness swallowed me.

I died, bleeding on the floor, the last thing I saw Jessica' s horrified face.

But then I woke up, not on the plush carpet of a Hamptons bridal suite, but in my childhood bed, years earlier.

The lumpy mattress, the stained floral wallpaper, the year on the calendar-it was all wrong.

Then Jessica walked in, wearing that cheap dress, with the same resentful ambition in her eyes.

She knew.

She was back, too, and declared, "This time, the life of a billionaire' s wife is mine!"

I knew how that story ended.

Let her have him.

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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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