Too Late, Ethan: The Comeback Queen

Too Late, Ethan: The Comeback Queen

Benjamen Ernst

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My office air, thick with stale coffee and cheap air freshener, always reminded me of the dreams I built with Ethan. We were supposed to marry in a month, invitations sent, a Vera Wang dress waiting, our Boston Harbor Hotel wedding booked. But then, Ethan, my fiancé of ten years, looked at me with what he thought were "soulful" eyes and dropped a bombshell. He was going to marry Sabrina, the scholarship intern my family' s foundation sponsored, to "save" her from a loan shark. He expected my "good heart" to understand this temporary arrangement, this noble sacrifice for a girl he plainly adored. I didn't cry or scream; the pain was a cold stone, but my face was calm. I saw him then, not as the boy I' d known since prep school, but as a weak, pathetic stranger using a flimsy excuse for a dirty affair. He had been counting on my blindness, my willingness to be a doormat. My hands didn' t tremble as I pulled an identical invitation from my Hermès bag. I slid it across his desk: an invitation to my wedding, to Matthew Lester, on the very same day. His disbelief turned to a slack-jawed horror as Sabrina, his tearful damsel, stumbled in. He instantly became her protector, glaring at me, accusing me of scaring her. I simply walked out, leaving the invitation like a time bomb, knowing my humiliation was far from over. The city' s elite whispered as he publicly chose her over me, his "powerful fiancée losing her grip." But they didn' t know the truth: this wasn' t the end of me; it was the start of something new. I tossed my family' s heirloom sapphire engagement ring into a recycling bin and typed my resignation to his company. I knew Ethan would try to cling to me, or worse, retaliate. What he didn' t know was that I was already steps ahead, ready to reclaim everything he thought he could steal.

Introduction

My office air, thick with stale coffee and cheap air freshener, always reminded me of the dreams I built with Ethan.

We were supposed to marry in a month, invitations sent, a Vera Wang dress waiting, our Boston Harbor Hotel wedding booked.

But then, Ethan, my fiancé of ten years, looked at me with what he thought were "soulful" eyes and dropped a bombshell.

He was going to marry Sabrina, the scholarship intern my family' s foundation sponsored, to "save" her from a loan shark.

He expected my "good heart" to understand this temporary arrangement, this noble sacrifice for a girl he plainly adored.

I didn't cry or scream; the pain was a cold stone, but my face was calm.

I saw him then, not as the boy I' d known since prep school, but as a weak, pathetic stranger using a flimsy excuse for a dirty affair.

He had been counting on my blindness, my willingness to be a doormat.

My hands didn' t tremble as I pulled an identical invitation from my Hermès bag.

I slid it across his desk: an invitation to my wedding, to Matthew Lester, on the very same day.

His disbelief turned to a slack-jawed horror as Sabrina, his tearful damsel, stumbled in.

He instantly became her protector, glaring at me, accusing me of scaring her.

I simply walked out, leaving the invitation like a time bomb, knowing my humiliation was far from over.

The city' s elite whispered as he publicly chose her over me, his "powerful fiancée losing her grip."

But they didn' t know the truth: this wasn' t the end of me; it was the start of something new.

I tossed my family' s heirloom sapphire engagement ring into a recycling bin and typed my resignation to his company.

I knew Ethan would try to cling to me, or worse, retaliate.

What he didn' t know was that I was already steps ahead, ready to reclaim everything he thought he could steal.

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Sold To The Devil: Escaping My Ruthless Husband

Sold To The Devil: Escaping My Ruthless Husband

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I was standing in the center of the gallery, holding a glass of expensive champagne, when the screens behind me flickered and my life ended. It was supposed to be an art unveiling, but the monitors shifted to fake footage of me handing evidence to the FBI. My fiancé, Ethan, looked at me like I was a sick dog that needed to be put down. My father slapped me across the face in front of everyone, disowning me to save his own skin. That was when Luca Vitti, the city’s most dangerous man, stepped in. He cleared the room and took my hand. I thought he was saving me. I didn't realize he was just collecting a new pet. I was locked in his estate, isolated and terrified. Then, my healthy mother suddenly "died" of pneumonia in a Vitti clinic. Days later, I saw Luca’s frail stepsister, Clara, breathing easily for the first time in her life. She had my mother’s lungs. I became nothing more than a breeding vessel. When I fell pregnant, I overheard Luca and Ethan planning my death. "Once the kid is cut out, she's a loose end," Luca had said. They were going to kill me and give my son to the woman who stole my mother's breath. I couldn't let that happen. So, I staged a tragedy. I induced labor in secret, hid my living son, and placed a fake corpse in the crib with a note: The Vitti Legacy. I escaped while they mourned. Five years later, Luca finally found the doctor’s confession. He learned that Clara had orchestrated everything. He opened the velvet box I left behind and realized it was empty. Now, he knows I didn't kill his son. I saved him from becoming a monster like his father.

Reborn: A Husband's Vengeful Love

Reborn: A Husband's Vengeful Love

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The last thing I remembered was the freezing cold of a lonely alley, the bitter taste of cheap whiskey, and the image of a newspaper: a glossy photo of my ex-wife, Sarah, and her new husband, Mark Thompson, cradling their perfect baby. My final breath fogged in the winter air as I died with the brutal truth ringing in my mind. I had failed them-my son, Leo, and my mother, Susan, both lying in fresh graves, victims of Sarah' s abandonment and my naive loyalty. For four years, I toiled, clinging to her empty promises, while they withered away from neglect and poverty in our crumbling home. I' d even sold a kidney to save them, but the money came too late; my mother starved, and Leo succumbed to a preventable fever. At their funeral, Sarah returned not to mourn, but to accuse, to divorce, and to flaunt her new life with Mark-a life built on our ruins. Then, a sharp, ragged gasp tore through me. I wasn' t in an alley, but on the cold, splintered floorboards of my own bedroom, the air thick with the scent of sickness. My heart hammered as I saw them: my mother, Susan, frail but breathing, and Leo, flushed with fever but alive, nestled in his crib. A quick glance at the calendar confirmed it: three days before their deaths. The raw grief, fused with a cold, hard rage, ignited a fire in my gut. No more silence. No more waiting. "Mom," I declared, my voice steady, "We' re leaving. We' re going to find Sarah." I had a second chance, and this time, I wouldn' t just survive; I would make them pay.

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