His Fake Wife, Her Real Voice

His Fake Wife, Her Real Voice

Gavin

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The call came from my half-brother, Andrew, offering me a lifeline: marry a comatose heiress for $150,000 a month. I, Ethan Clark, the black sheep of the family, agreed instantly, eager to escape my cramped apartment and dead-end life. My new wife, Nicole Anderson, was a "Tech Princess" in a persistent vegetative state, surrounded by machines in a luxurious hospital suite. I started talking to her, planning how to spend her money on classic cars and parties, feeling a smug satisfaction at my newfound fortune. But then, a sharp, indignant voice echoed in my head: "You will do no such thing with my money, you lazy, gold-digging parasite." It was Nicole. My comatose wife. And she was sassy. Trapped in her own body, Nicole was telepathically directing me-scratching her back, giving me life advice, even coaching me through a viral video and a press conference that saved her company's stock. I went from resentful caretaker to faithful prince in the public eye, even fending off my brother' s attempts to buy me out and my ex-girlfriend' s desperate grab for attention. Suddenly, a paparazzo scandal at her bedside triggered something impossible. Nicole sat bolt upright, her eyes blazing with rage, and in a terrifyingly clear voice, ordered everyone out. She was awake. But the cold, calculating CEO stared at me with no recognition, no sign of the fiery woman I'd known in my mind. "Who are you?" she asked, and then: "I want a divorce." How could the woman who saved me, who became my secret partner, look at me like a stranger? What had happened to the Nicole who knew my heart, trapped within her own?

Introduction

The call came from my half-brother, Andrew, offering me a lifeline: marry a comatose heiress for $150,000 a month.

I, Ethan Clark, the black sheep of the family, agreed instantly, eager to escape my cramped apartment and dead-end life.

My new wife, Nicole Anderson, was a "Tech Princess" in a persistent vegetative state, surrounded by machines in a luxurious hospital suite.

I started talking to her, planning how to spend her money on classic cars and parties, feeling a smug satisfaction at my newfound fortune.

But then, a sharp, indignant voice echoed in my head: "You will do no such thing with my money, you lazy, gold-digging parasite."

It was Nicole. My comatose wife. And she was sassy.

Trapped in her own body, Nicole was telepathically directing me-scratching her back, giving me life advice, even coaching me through a viral video and a press conference that saved her company's stock.

I went from resentful caretaker to faithful prince in the public eye, even fending off my brother' s attempts to buy me out and my ex-girlfriend' s desperate grab for attention.

Suddenly, a paparazzo scandal at her bedside triggered something impossible.

Nicole sat bolt upright, her eyes blazing with rage, and in a terrifyingly clear voice, ordered everyone out.

She was awake.

But the cold, calculating CEO stared at me with no recognition, no sign of the fiery woman I'd known in my mind.

"Who are you?" she asked, and then: "I want a divorce."

How could the woman who saved me, who became my secret partner, look at me like a stranger?

What had happened to the Nicole who knew my heart, trapped within her own?

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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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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
4.5

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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