The Scent of Betrayal, A New Path

The Scent of Betrayal, A New Path

Gavin

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My life with Isabella was a dream, a meticulously crafted illusion of love and partnership, sealed with a unique cologne she commissioned for me. Then, one Tuesday morning, that perfect scent, our scent, suddenly made her flinch. She claimed an allergy, dismissed it as "too strong," and I, a fool for her comfort, stopped wearing it. A week later, I found her clutching a worn hoodie in our laundry room, reeking of cheap deodorant and unfamiliar youth. Her casual dismissal, "It' s Ethan' s. He' s that new intern I' m mentoring," struck a chilling chord. The way she spoke of him, the hunger in her eyes I hadn' t seen in years, the word she used- "nurturing" -echoed a past life, a forgotten version of us. I tried to confront her, publicly, thinking our history meant something. I was brutally wrong. She offered to buy me out with pennies from our pre-nuptial agreement, then surgically sabotaged my Wall Street career, ruining me financially. When I had nothing left, she showed her true monstrosity: she kidnapped my kind, loving parents, tying them up in a dark warehouse. Her demand was simple: sign the divorce papers, sign away everything, and they would live. I signed. The next day, the warehouse exploded. "A gas leak," the police report said. I knew it wasn' t. I stood on the edge of my office building, ready to end it all, when I woke up. I was in my bed, sunlight streaming through the window, my phone buzzing. The date on the screen was the day I first heard the name Ethan Cole. This was no longer about love or reconciliation. This was about survival. This time, there would be no confrontation. This time, I would just disappear. But first, I had to save the only people who mattered. "Dad?" I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Listen to me very carefully. I need you and Mom to pack a bag. I' m booking you a flight. I want you to go on that world cruise you' ve always talked about. Tonight."

Introduction

My life with Isabella was a dream, a meticulously crafted illusion of love and partnership, sealed with a unique cologne she commissioned for me.

Then, one Tuesday morning, that perfect scent, our scent, suddenly made her flinch.

She claimed an allergy, dismissed it as "too strong," and I, a fool for her comfort, stopped wearing it.

A week later, I found her clutching a worn hoodie in our laundry room, reeking of cheap deodorant and unfamiliar youth.

Her casual dismissal, "It' s Ethan' s. He' s that new intern I' m mentoring," struck a chilling chord.

The way she spoke of him, the hunger in her eyes I hadn' t seen in years, the word she used- "nurturing" -echoed a past life, a forgotten version of us.

I tried to confront her, publicly, thinking our history meant something.

I was brutally wrong.

She offered to buy me out with pennies from our pre-nuptial agreement, then surgically sabotaged my Wall Street career, ruining me financially.

When I had nothing left, she showed her true monstrosity: she kidnapped my kind, loving parents, tying them up in a dark warehouse.

Her demand was simple: sign the divorce papers, sign away everything, and they would live.

I signed.

The next day, the warehouse exploded. "A gas leak," the police report said. I knew it wasn' t.

I stood on the edge of my office building, ready to end it all, when I woke up.

I was in my bed, sunlight streaming through the window, my phone buzzing.

The date on the screen was the day I first heard the name Ethan Cole.

This was no longer about love or reconciliation. This was about survival.

This time, there would be no confrontation. This time, I would just disappear.

But first, I had to save the only people who mattered.

"Dad?" I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Listen to me very carefully. I need you and Mom to pack a bag. I' m booking you a flight. I want you to go on that world cruise you' ve always talked about. Tonight."

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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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