Three Years, A Shattered Reality With The Heir

Three Years, A Shattered Reality With The Heir

Gavin

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Three years. Three years of marriage to Olivia Reed, the woman who redefined my world. On our anniversary, I went to sign the final papers for our joint asset trust, a mere formality. But the city clerk told me words that shattered my reality: "According to our records, you are not legally married to Olivia Reed." My laughter died in my throat when she added, "There is a record of a marriage for Ms. Olivia Reed... to Alex Thorne. It was filed two years ago." Alex Thorne. My protégé. The talented young architect I'd mentored, the man I trusted after our ceremony. The wedding certificate, the grand gestures, the vows-all lies. Every single one. I pieced it together: Olivia's sad eyes, her whispers of a "replacement" while I was overseas, her tears and apologies for being "paranoid" about Alex when I returned. Now, I heard her cooing to him on the phone, "To him, I'm his devoted wife. To the world, you' re my husband. It' s a perfect arrangement. I have his love and your legal status. I have everything." Everything. And I had nothing. I was a sham. A joke. The love I felt, a towering structure, crumbled to dust. There was no rage. Just a cold, empty void. Then, the sculpture crashed. Olivia chose him, shielding him, letting the heavy steel frame slam into me, crushing bones. Lying broken in the hospital, I watched her dote on him while ignoring me. I realized she had intended to erase me. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't an accident. This was a brutal choice, a calculated punishment. Ethan Miller, the trusting fool, was dead. I decided then. I wasn' t confronting her. I was disappearing. And then, when she least expected it, I would take it all away.

Introduction

Three years. Three years of marriage to Olivia Reed, the woman who redefined my world.

On our anniversary, I went to sign the final papers for our joint asset trust, a mere formality.

But the city clerk told me words that shattered my reality: "According to our records, you are not legally married to Olivia Reed."

My laughter died in my throat when she added, "There is a record of a marriage for Ms. Olivia Reed... to Alex Thorne. It was filed two years ago."

Alex Thorne. My protégé. The talented young architect I'd mentored, the man I trusted after our ceremony.

The wedding certificate, the grand gestures, the vows-all lies. Every single one.

I pieced it together: Olivia's sad eyes, her whispers of a "replacement" while I was overseas, her tears and apologies for being "paranoid" about Alex when I returned.

Now, I heard her cooing to him on the phone, "To him, I'm his devoted wife. To the world, you' re my husband. It' s a perfect arrangement. I have his love and your legal status. I have everything."

Everything. And I had nothing. I was a sham. A joke.

The love I felt, a towering structure, crumbled to dust. There was no rage. Just a cold, empty void.

Then, the sculpture crashed. Olivia chose him, shielding him, letting the heavy steel frame slam into me, crushing bones.

Lying broken in the hospital, I watched her dote on him while ignoring me. I realized she had intended to erase me.

This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't an accident. This was a brutal choice, a calculated punishment.

Ethan Miller, the trusting fool, was dead.

I decided then. I wasn' t confronting her. I was disappearing. And then, when she least expected it, I would take it all away.

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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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