Betrayed By Love, Rebuilt By Fate

Betrayed By Love, Rebuilt By Fate

REGINA MCBRIDE

5.0
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The award felt heavy in my hands, a testament to my genius as Ava Monroe, the best structural architect in the business. But the triumph was short-lived. Overnight, the newly completed Olympia Skyscraper collapsed, and suddenly my stepsister, Chloe Vance, was on every news channel, her face a mask of tragic sorrow. "I had a vision. A premonition of the collapse," she declared, looking directly into the camera, her eyes seeming to find mine. "I tried to warn Ava Monroe. But she did nothing. She said she needed to wait. To let the problem get worse so her firm could charge a higher fee to fix it. It was about the money." The world stopped. My firm fired me, Liam, my fiancé, abandoned me, and my father, Mr. Monroe, disowned me, siding with Chloe. My mother' s memorial garden was vandalized; the cornerstone, a piece of my heart, ripped out and thrown into the river. I dove in, desperate to get it back, but the current dragged me under, the cold despair a crushing weight. Then I gasped, sucking in clean, dry air. I was in my bed, sunlight streaming through the window. It was the morning of the collapse, before the accusations, before my world ended. This time, it would be different.

Introduction

The award felt heavy in my hands, a testament to my genius as Ava Monroe, the best structural architect in the business.

But the triumph was short-lived.

Overnight, the newly completed Olympia Skyscraper collapsed, and suddenly my stepsister, Chloe Vance, was on every news channel, her face a mask of tragic sorrow.

"I had a vision. A premonition of the collapse," she declared, looking directly into the camera, her eyes seeming to find mine. "I tried to warn Ava Monroe. But she did nothing. She said she needed to wait. To let the problem get worse so her firm could charge a higher fee to fix it. It was about the money."

The world stopped.

My firm fired me, Liam, my fiancé, abandoned me, and my father, Mr. Monroe, disowned me, siding with Chloe.

My mother' s memorial garden was vandalized; the cornerstone, a piece of my heart, ripped out and thrown into the river.

I dove in, desperate to get it back, but the current dragged me under, the cold despair a crushing weight.

Then I gasped, sucking in clean, dry air.

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

It was the morning of the collapse, before the accusations, before my world ended.

This time, it would be different.

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I was the CEO of a multi-billion dollar tech corporation, but my wife, Chloe, knew me only as Ethan Miller, a modest app developer. I cherished the idea that her love for me was pure, untainted by wealth or status, so my true identity remained my closest secret. That carefully constructed life crashed down when I arrived at Austin' s most exclusive club for a crucial business meeting. Instead of an empty suite, I found Chloe, encircled by her snobbish friends, her waist possessed by Blake Harrison, a rival who clearly relished my perceived "lowly" status. Before I could process the scene, her friend Tiffany sneered, "Chloe, darling, is this your… little app developer?" Then, Chloe herself, face flushed with embarrassment, whispered urgently, "You can't be here. This isn't your world, Ethan. You're embarrassing me." And, louder for the room, "Are you stalking me?" The accusation hit me like a physical blow. Me? Stalking her? After all I' d built, all I' d sacrificed for us, she saw me as an embarrassment, someone who couldn't even belong in a fancy club without her. A cold, hard certainty settled in my gut: She's ashamed of me. Was our entire relationship built on a lie of my own making, or hers? The pain was sharp, but beneath it, a decisive edge hardened. "Chloe," I stated, my voice flat, cutting through the smug chatter, "I want a divorce." The room fell silent. Little did they know, this was just the prologue to a truth that would shake their world to its foundations.

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I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

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