Soul Swap Protocol: A Husband's Revenge

Soul Swap Protocol: A Husband's Revenge

Gavin

5.0
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The day my wife, Jen, ghosted me was the day of my nephew's baptism. I was supposed to be in San Diego, but instead, I was in Austin, staring at my phone, a cold dread creeping into my gut. A notification popped up: an Instagram story from Jen showing her hand intertwined with a man' s, captioned, "Finally picking up where we left off. This time, I'm not letting go." My custom 8-bit heart wedding ring, symbolizing everything we built, was gone from her finger. It was Ethan Lester, her high school sweetheart, the washed-up football star now selling cars. My furious comment on her post vanished, then her call came, her voice filled with a fury I didn't recognize. "You're so toxic, Andrew!" she yelled. "You need to apologize. Not to me. To Ethan. He's my true love, and you've been nothing but a placeholder!" Four years, my love, my work, reduced to a placeholder. Later that night, the 'true love' showed up at my house, boasting about my wife being 'always his,' a smug parasite preying on her because he smelled our company's money. He lunged at me with a pathetic punch, which I easily countered, pinning him face-down on my lawn. Suddenly, a holographic interface shimmered before my eyes, revealing Ethan' s terrifying debt: maxed-out credit cards, delinquent auto loans, gambling debts, and an eviction notice. He wasn't just a parasite; he was desperate, drowning, and our company was his life raft. Then, a new glow appeared: "Designated Soul Swap Protocol Activated. Targets: Jennifer Hewitt, Ethan Lester. One-Time Opportunity. Execute? Y/N." A cold, sharp clarity cut through my rage. This wasn't just a system; it was a solution, a way to show Jen exactly what her "true love" was made of, and I mentally selected 'Y.'

Introduction

The day my wife, Jen, ghosted me was the day of my nephew's baptism.

I was supposed to be in San Diego, but instead, I was in Austin, staring at my phone, a cold dread creeping into my gut.

A notification popped up: an Instagram story from Jen showing her hand intertwined with a man' s, captioned, "Finally picking up where we left off. This time, I'm not letting go."

My custom 8-bit heart wedding ring, symbolizing everything we built, was gone from her finger.

It was Ethan Lester, her high school sweetheart, the washed-up football star now selling cars.

My furious comment on her post vanished, then her call came, her voice filled with a fury I didn't recognize.

"You're so toxic, Andrew!" she yelled. "You need to apologize. Not to me. To Ethan. He's my true love, and you've been nothing but a placeholder!"

Four years, my love, my work, reduced to a placeholder.

Later that night, the 'true love' showed up at my house, boasting about my wife being 'always his,' a smug parasite preying on her because he smelled our company's money.

He lunged at me with a pathetic punch, which I easily countered, pinning him face-down on my lawn.

Suddenly, a holographic interface shimmered before my eyes, revealing Ethan' s terrifying debt: maxed-out credit cards, delinquent auto loans, gambling debts, and an eviction notice.

He wasn't just a parasite; he was desperate, drowning, and our company was his life raft.

Then, a new glow appeared: "Designated Soul Swap Protocol Activated. Targets: Jennifer Hewitt, Ethan Lester. One-Time Opportunity. Execute? Y/N."

A cold, sharp clarity cut through my rage. This wasn't just a system; it was a solution, a way to show Jen exactly what her "true love" was made of, and I mentally selected 'Y.'

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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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