The Billionaire Heiress's Revenge

The Billionaire Heiress's Revenge

Gavin

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The first sign was a text message glowing on Liam' s phone screen. "I miss you. When can I see you again?" it read, from a woman named Sarah. I was sitting on the edge of our bed, waiting for him, clutching the phone that held a history of his secret intimacy. When he walked out of the shower, naked save for the towel around his hips, I didn' t scream. I just held up the phone and said, "Her or me, Liam." He chose me, deleted her number, and swore it was a mistake. But the silence in our penthouse grew louder, his touch became a habit, and his eyes looked through me, not at me. I felt myself disappearing, desperate and pathetic, despite being the heiress to a real estate empire. So, I proposed to him, clutching at a phantom hope at a charity gala, only for his forced "Okay, Ava. Let' s get married" to ring hollow. The wedding preparations were a blur of my efforts, conspicuously absent of him. My friends and family saw the pity in my eyes, but I pushed on, convinced the vows would banish Sarah' s ghost. Then, on our painfully beautiful wedding day, as the officiant prepared to pronounce us, a small voice cut through the air. "Daddy?" A little girl, no more than five, stood at the aisle's entrance, huge tearful eyes fixed on Liam. His face went ashen. He dropped my hands as if burned, turned, and ran-away from me, our vows, everything-scooping the little girl into his arms. Sarah stood behind her, a triumphant, sorrowful look on her face. He abandoned me at the altar, humiliating me for the world to see. Deep down, a cold clarity told me this was always a possibility, and I was not unprepared. Taking the microphone, I announced, "The groom has a prior commitment. Enjoy the food. Consider it a celebration of my newfound freedom." I ordered security and called my lawyer. They had robbed me of my dignity, but I wouldn't let them rewrite my story. It was time to fight back.

Introduction

The first sign was a text message glowing on Liam' s phone screen.

"I miss you. When can I see you again?" it read, from a woman named Sarah.

I was sitting on the edge of our bed, waiting for him, clutching the phone that held a history of his secret intimacy.

When he walked out of the shower, naked save for the towel around his hips, I didn' t scream.

I just held up the phone and said, "Her or me, Liam."

He chose me, deleted her number, and swore it was a mistake.

But the silence in our penthouse grew louder, his touch became a habit, and his eyes looked through me, not at me.

I felt myself disappearing, desperate and pathetic, despite being the heiress to a real estate empire.

So, I proposed to him, clutching at a phantom hope at a charity gala, only for his forced "Okay, Ava. Let' s get married" to ring hollow.

The wedding preparations were a blur of my efforts, conspicuously absent of him.

My friends and family saw the pity in my eyes, but I pushed on, convinced the vows would banish Sarah' s ghost.

Then, on our painfully beautiful wedding day, as the officiant prepared to pronounce us, a small voice cut through the air.

"Daddy?"

A little girl, no more than five, stood at the aisle's entrance, huge tearful eyes fixed on Liam.

His face went ashen.

He dropped my hands as if burned, turned, and ran-away from me, our vows, everything-scooping the little girl into his arms.

Sarah stood behind her, a triumphant, sorrowful look on her face.

He abandoned me at the altar, humiliating me for the world to see.

Deep down, a cold clarity told me this was always a possibility, and I was not unprepared.

Taking the microphone, I announced, "The groom has a prior commitment. Enjoy the food. Consider it a celebration of my newfound freedom."

I ordered security and called my lawyer.

They had robbed me of my dignity, but I wouldn't let them rewrite my story.

It was time to fight back.

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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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