A Wife's Unseen Vengeance

A Wife's Unseen Vengeance

Gavin

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My name is Elena. Or it was. Now, I am just a cold memory clinging to our lake house in the Adirondacks. For three years, I' ve watched the garden turn wild, a monument to my forgotten life. Then, an expensive black SUV crunched up the gravel driveway, instantly recognizable as Liam' s. Liam, my husband, stepped out, a stranger in a tailored suit, here for one twisted reason. He was here to force me to give Chloe, his mistress, a kidney. He strutted around, assuming I had simply run away, hiding out of spite. He didn' t know Chloe had already put me in the ground, just feet from our home. He muttered insults about me, calling me lazy, unfocused, nothing like "Chloe." He stormed the house, yelling for me to end my "stupid game," oblivious to my spectral presence. Even when Marcus, our kind handyman, told him I was dead, Liam laughed it off. He dismissed it as another one of my "dramatic tricks," then kicked over the crude wooden cross marking my unmarked grave. His final threat, shouted at empty air, was against our son, Leo, if I didn't appear. I, a helpless ghost bound by love and rage, could only watch this desecration, unable to scream or stop him. It was then, as the cross splintered, that the blinding memory of my death returned, sharp and clear. Chloe, the woman Liam believed, the one he openly preferred, was the architect of my end. She pushed me from the balcony, watched me fall, then paid two local thugs to finish the job. They dragged my broken body into the woods and buried me alive, right here, next to the house. Now, Liam is here, digging with a shovel, convinced he's exposing a charade. But what he's about to unearth isn' t a trick; it' s the brutal, physical proof of a murder he was too blind to see. And the dark truth of his perfect Chloe.

Introduction

My name is Elena. Or it was.

Now, I am just a cold memory clinging to our lake house in the Adirondacks.

For three years, I' ve watched the garden turn wild, a monument to my forgotten life.

Then, an expensive black SUV crunched up the gravel driveway, instantly recognizable as Liam' s.

Liam, my husband, stepped out, a stranger in a tailored suit, here for one twisted reason.

He was here to force me to give Chloe, his mistress, a kidney.

He strutted around, assuming I had simply run away, hiding out of spite.

He didn' t know Chloe had already put me in the ground, just feet from our home.

He muttered insults about me, calling me lazy, unfocused, nothing like "Chloe."

He stormed the house, yelling for me to end my "stupid game," oblivious to my spectral presence.

Even when Marcus, our kind handyman, told him I was dead, Liam laughed it off.

He dismissed it as another one of my "dramatic tricks," then kicked over the crude wooden cross marking my unmarked grave.

His final threat, shouted at empty air, was against our son, Leo, if I didn't appear.

I, a helpless ghost bound by love and rage, could only watch this desecration, unable to scream or stop him.

It was then, as the cross splintered, that the blinding memory of my death returned, sharp and clear.

Chloe, the woman Liam believed, the one he openly preferred, was the architect of my end.

She pushed me from the balcony, watched me fall, then paid two local thugs to finish the job.

They dragged my broken body into the woods and buried me alive, right here, next to the house.

Now, Liam is here, digging with a shovel, convinced he's exposing a charade.

But what he's about to unearth isn' t a trick; it' s the brutal, physical proof of a murder he was too blind to see.

And the dark truth of his perfect Chloe.

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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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