No More Tears, Only Retribution

No More Tears, Only Retribution

Jing Yue

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The eviction notice, a cruel red rectangle, mocked me from my door. Just months ago, I was Chloe, the artist poised to revolutionize the world with Aura, my groundbreaking AI. Now, the world was closing in, air squeezed from my lungs. Then, at the sprawling Innovatech conference, the stage set for our triumph, my fiancé Mark unveiled Aura, which I poured my soul into, as his own. "I call her... Genesis," he boomed, "created solely by me." My best friend, Sarah, whose hand I held moments before, gazed at him with adoration, not outrage. The fallout was swift and brutal. Mark, the instant tech celebrity, branded me a disgruntled ex. Sarah, leveraging her gallery connections, systematically blacklisted me, painting me as unstable, a fraud. Calls unanswered, doors slammed shut-my life, my legacy, evaporated. I was a ghost in a rundown apartment, bearing an eviction notice, with nothing left. How could they? How could the two people I trusted most, the two people who were my family, betray me so completely, so publicly? The world had become a twisted, unrecognizable place where truth was irrelevant, and loyalty meant nothing. But in the ashes of utter despair, sifting through the remains of my life, my fingers brushed against my estranged father' s dusty hard drive-a digital arsenal of hacking tools and encrypted journals. The artist in me was dead, but something else, a chilling new resolve, began to stir. I would change my destiny, not by going back, but by going forward with skills they never saw coming.

Introduction

The eviction notice, a cruel red rectangle, mocked me from my door.

Just months ago, I was Chloe, the artist poised to revolutionize the world with Aura, my groundbreaking AI.

Now, the world was closing in, air squeezed from my lungs.

Then, at the sprawling Innovatech conference, the stage set for our triumph, my fiancé Mark unveiled Aura, which I poured my soul into, as his own.

"I call her... Genesis," he boomed, "created solely by me."

My best friend, Sarah, whose hand I held moments before, gazed at him with adoration, not outrage.

The fallout was swift and brutal.

Mark, the instant tech celebrity, branded me a disgruntled ex.

Sarah, leveraging her gallery connections, systematically blacklisted me, painting me as unstable, a fraud.

Calls unanswered, doors slammed shut-my life, my legacy, evaporated.

I was a ghost in a rundown apartment, bearing an eviction notice, with nothing left.

How could they? How could the two people I trusted most, the two people who were my family, betray me so completely, so publicly?

The world had become a twisted, unrecognizable place where truth was irrelevant, and loyalty meant nothing.

But in the ashes of utter despair, sifting through the remains of my life, my fingers brushed against my estranged father' s dusty hard drive-a digital arsenal of hacking tools and encrypted journals.

The artist in me was dead, but something else, a chilling new resolve, began to stir.

I would change my destiny, not by going back, but by going forward with skills they never saw coming.

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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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