Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

Beyond The Scratches: An Heiress's Revenge

Gavin

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The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well. My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez. But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike. And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell. Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake. My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom. "You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!" The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain. Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade. Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel. How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act? Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter? This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for. But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me. And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine.

Introduction

The exclusive charity gala was a suffocating display of elite hypocrisy, a world I, Gabrielle Johns, knew all too well.

My stepfather and his golden child took center stage, gushing over a scholarship student named Maria Chavez.

But Maria was no fragile victim; she was a snake, waiting for her moment to strike.

And she did, seizing the microphone to publicly accuse me of relentless bullying and making her life a hell.

Suddenly, her gaze locked on mine, and she wailed about being driven to self-harm, pulling up her sleeve to reveal faint scratches that were obviously fake.

My stepbrother, Andrew, blinded by rage and infatuation, lunged at me, his eyes spitting venom.

"You monster," he snarled, "you made her want to die!"

The crowd' s sympathy for Maria solidified into open disgust for me, painting me as the entitled villain.

Even my stepfather, Matthew, the man my mother married, stood by, playing the disappointed patriarch, complicit in the charade.

Yet, as the room swam with their judgment and their lies, I refused to move, refusing to kneel.

How could these people, who claimed to care about charity, be so easily duped by such a transparent act?

Why was the man my mother made powerful so quick to turn on me, his own stepdaughter?

This wasn' t just a malicious accusation; it was a cold, calculated strike against everything I believed my family stood for.

But they had made a fatal mistake: they hurt me.

And they had no idea who they were truly dealing with, or what I was capable of doing to protect what was mine.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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