No More Broken Songs

No More Broken Songs

Gavin

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My life as Gabrielle Fuller, Nashville' s sweetheart known for songs of love and forgiveness, seemed picture-perfect. My husband, Caleb Scott, the city' s "Kingmaker" producer, publicly repented for his first affair, solidifying our image as the golden couple who weathered any storm. I'd even secured our future with a brutal post-nup years ago, a secret safety net if his "mistakes" ever escalated. Then, one rainy Tuesday, searching for tax documents, I stumbled upon a hidden folder on Caleb' s computer. "Archives," password-protected. I typed the date of his first affair, and it opened to reveal hundreds of video files. My breath hitched. Caleb. And Molly. Not just pictures, but damning videos from last week. I watched as Molly, pregnant, sat on his lap, mocking me. "Gabrielle is easy," Caleb sneered, "She wants to believe in fairy tales. As long as I play the prince, she'll never look behind the curtain." My world imploded. The carefully curated image of our perfect marriage, the love story that fueled my career, was a meticulously crafted lie. My husband, the man who' d promised forever, was a master manipulator, not just cheating but planning to steal my future, my dream of a family, by faking my infertility and adopting the child his mistress was carrying. The pain was a physical blow, yet through the shock, a cold, hard clarity emerged. I wasn't going to collapse. I was going to fight back. And I knew exactly how to make him pay.

Introduction

My life as Gabrielle Fuller, Nashville' s sweetheart known for songs of love and forgiveness, seemed picture-perfect. My husband, Caleb Scott, the city' s "Kingmaker" producer, publicly repented for his first affair, solidifying our image as the golden couple who weathered any storm. I'd even secured our future with a brutal post-nup years ago, a secret safety net if his "mistakes" ever escalated.

Then, one rainy Tuesday, searching for tax documents, I stumbled upon a hidden folder on Caleb' s computer. "Archives," password-protected. I typed the date of his first affair, and it opened to reveal hundreds of video files.

My breath hitched. Caleb. And Molly. Not just pictures, but damning videos from last week. I watched as Molly, pregnant, sat on his lap, mocking me. "Gabrielle is easy," Caleb sneered, "She wants to believe in fairy tales. As long as I play the prince, she'll never look behind the curtain." My world imploded.

The carefully curated image of our perfect marriage, the love story that fueled my career, was a meticulously crafted lie. My husband, the man who' d promised forever, was a master manipulator, not just cheating but planning to steal my future, my dream of a family, by faking my infertility and adopting the child his mistress was carrying.

The pain was a physical blow, yet through the shock, a cold, hard clarity emerged. I wasn't going to collapse. I was going to fight back. And I knew exactly how to make him pay.

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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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I was the Pack’s shame, a twenty-year-old "Runt" who had never shifted. Yet, I clung to the desperate hope that Alpha Marcus, the man I had loved my entire life, would finally claim me at the Full Moon Gala. Instead, he stood before the entire Pack with Izzy, a woman who looked at him with hunger rather than love. With eyes as cold as stone, he didn't just ignore me; he destroyed me. "I, Marcus Thorne, reject you, Olivia Hayes." The rejection snapped our bond, but the nightmare was just beginning. When Izzy framed me for poisoning her, Marcus didn't hesitate. He chained me in the dungeon and wielded the silver whip himself. Each lash burned like liquid fire, tearing through my skin as he demanded a confession I couldn't give. I woke up in a pool of my own blood, only to hear the nurse whisper the truth I was never meant to know. The silver toxicity hadn't just broken my body; it had killed the unborn pup I didn't even know I was carrying. Marcus had whipped the mother of his own child to protect a liar. He had killed his heir for a woman who was faking her own pregnancy. That night, as I crawled through the mud to escape, the weak Runt died. In the freezing waters of the river, my bones snapped and reshaped. I didn't just shift; I became the legendary White Wolf. And when Marcus finally realized the truth and came begging on his knees, I looked at him with my new, violet eyes and prepared to give him the rejection he deserved.

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