His Betrayal, Her Burning Revenge

His Betrayal, Her Burning Revenge

Gavin

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The leather seats of the Rolls-Royce were cold against my bare skin, just like the emptiness inside me after another stolen encounter with Ethan Vance. I was Scarlett Hayes, a sharp fashion designer, entangled with a tech billionaire, a genius admired by the world. But tonight, the usual rush was gone, replaced by a chilling void as I watched city lights blur past. Then, a message on Ethan' s laptop caught my eye: "Ethan, the storm scares me..." From "Willow." Willow, my sickly stepsister, a name that tasted like bitter poison. My phone buzzed. It was Ethan. "I have to step out for a bit. An emergency. Stay here." He rushed out, leaving me with a cold dread. I tracked his car to a high-end hotel, and what I saw shattered my world: Ethan, tenderly carrying Willow like she was made of glass. He was her protector, her long-lost sweetheart; the two painful parts of my life colliding. Suddenly, Willow wasn't just some delicate girl. She was Ethan's past, and now, my stepsister. Rage, betrayal, and a deep, aching hurt swirled inside me. The arranged marriage my father forced on me wasn't just an escape anymore. It was a weapon. My revenge. Two days later, homeless and broke after a vengeful shopping spree, Ethan found me. He offered me refuge. I saw the handsome, deceptive face of the man who had played me for a fool. A week later, at Willow' s welcome-home party, the ultimate humiliation struck. In a cruel game, Ethan chose Willow repeatedly-for kindness, for trust, and finally, on a sinking ship, to save. His silence when asked who he loved more was a public verdict. He chose Willow. He always would. Something inside me snapped. I lunged at Willow, my hands finding her fragile neck. Ethan pulled me off, his face a mask of cold fury, choosing her even then. "He was never yours," Willow hissed after I was detained. "This whole affair? It was my idea. He recorded everything. All for me." The betrayal was monstrous. I walked out, went to his penthouse, and systematically destroyed it. I burned everything to the ground. The "ailing" groom in the South, Liam Sterling, was not what I expected. He was healthy, charming, and looked at me as a long-lost dream, confessing he had orchestrated the arranged marriage just to meet me. Just as I found a flicker of peace, a fragile hope for a new life, Ethan came back. He interrupted my engagement party, a wild, desperate man, publicly declaring his love for me. But it was too late. I rejected him. I had a new, real life. On the eve of my wedding, in a final, mad act of possession, Ethan kidnapped me. He took me to a secluded private island. He tried to rekindle our past with lavish gifts and desperate affection. I feigned compliance, secretly planning my escape. I managed to get a message to Liam. He came for me. As we escaped, a cliff collapsed. Ethan, in a single, selfless act, threw himself in front of us. He saved us. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Ethan, lying broken at the bottom of the cliff. He lost. I won. But deep down, a question lingered: what kind of love could twist so violently?

Introduction

The leather seats of the Rolls-Royce were cold against my bare skin, just like the emptiness inside me after another stolen encounter with Ethan Vance.

I was Scarlett Hayes, a sharp fashion designer, entangled with a tech billionaire, a genius admired by the world.

But tonight, the usual rush was gone, replaced by a chilling void as I watched city lights blur past.

Then, a message on Ethan' s laptop caught my eye: "Ethan, the storm scares me..." From "Willow." Willow, my sickly stepsister, a name that tasted like bitter poison.

My phone buzzed. It was Ethan. "I have to step out for a bit. An emergency. Stay here." He rushed out, leaving me with a cold dread.

I tracked his car to a high-end hotel, and what I saw shattered my world: Ethan, tenderly carrying Willow like she was made of glass.

He was her protector, her long-lost sweetheart; the two painful parts of my life colliding.

Suddenly, Willow wasn't just some delicate girl. She was Ethan's past, and now, my stepsister. Rage, betrayal, and a deep, aching hurt swirled inside me.

The arranged marriage my father forced on me wasn't just an escape anymore. It was a weapon. My revenge.

Two days later, homeless and broke after a vengeful shopping spree, Ethan found me. He offered me refuge. I saw the handsome, deceptive face of the man who had played me for a fool.

A week later, at Willow' s welcome-home party, the ultimate humiliation struck. In a cruel game, Ethan chose Willow repeatedly-for kindness, for trust, and finally, on a sinking ship, to save.

His silence when asked who he loved more was a public verdict. He chose Willow. He always would.

Something inside me snapped. I lunged at Willow, my hands finding her fragile neck. Ethan pulled me off, his face a mask of cold fury, choosing her even then.

"He was never yours," Willow hissed after I was detained. "This whole affair? It was my idea. He recorded everything. All for me."

The betrayal was monstrous. I walked out, went to his penthouse, and systematically destroyed it. I burned everything to the ground.

The "ailing" groom in the South, Liam Sterling, was not what I expected. He was healthy, charming, and looked at me as a long-lost dream, confessing he had orchestrated the arranged marriage just to meet me.

Just as I found a flicker of peace, a fragile hope for a new life, Ethan came back.

He interrupted my engagement party, a wild, desperate man, publicly declaring his love for me.

But it was too late. I rejected him. I had a new, real life.

On the eve of my wedding, in a final, mad act of possession, Ethan kidnapped me. He took me to a secluded private island.

He tried to rekindle our past with lavish gifts and desperate affection. I feigned compliance, secretly planning my escape.

I managed to get a message to Liam. He came for me. As we escaped, a cliff collapsed. Ethan, in a single, selfless act, threw himself in front of us. He saved us.

The last thing I saw before everything went black was Ethan, lying broken at the bottom of the cliff. He lost. I won.

But deep down, a question lingered: what kind of love could twist so violently?

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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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