No Longer Her Wounded Puppy

No Longer Her Wounded Puppy

Gavin

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The last thing I remembered was the cold concrete against my cheek and the metallic taste of my own blood. Above the ringing in my ears, I heard Olivia, my wife, screaming, not for me, but for Ethan, her charming assistant. I had pushed her out of the way of falling scaffolding, saving her life, only for a steel pipe to crush mine; a minor gash on Ethan' s forehead was treated like a mortal wound while my entire life drained away. As paramedics rushed Ethan onto a stretcher, my vision blurred, and the brutal truth crystallized: all my sacrifices, years working to support her dreams, meant nothing. I was worth less than her lover's superficial cut, and my love for her finally died, just moments before I did. Then, I blinked. Suddenly, the sterile hospital smell was gone, replaced by Olivia' s familiar, expensive perfume, and I was standing whole, pain-free, in the living room of our ridiculously large, empty house. It was the night of our biggest fight, a week before the accident, a fight that had set the stage for the end. "Liam, I' m tired of this," she said, tossing a black credit card onto the coffee table. "Here. A million-dollar credit line. Go buy yourself whatever you want. Just stop acting like a wounded puppy every time I spend time with Ethan. It' s pathetic." In my past life, her words had shattered me, driving me to refuse the card and plead for her love, a futile mistake. But this time, I was reborn. I calmly picked up the card, a chilling question forming on my lips: "So I can spend as much as I want?"

Introduction

The last thing I remembered was the cold concrete against my cheek and the metallic taste of my own blood.

Above the ringing in my ears, I heard Olivia, my wife, screaming, not for me, but for Ethan, her charming assistant.

I had pushed her out of the way of falling scaffolding, saving her life, only for a steel pipe to crush mine; a minor gash on Ethan' s forehead was treated like a mortal wound while my entire life drained away.

As paramedics rushed Ethan onto a stretcher, my vision blurred, and the brutal truth crystallized: all my sacrifices, years working to support her dreams, meant nothing.

I was worth less than her lover's superficial cut, and my love for her finally died, just moments before I did.

Then, I blinked.

Suddenly, the sterile hospital smell was gone, replaced by Olivia' s familiar, expensive perfume, and I was standing whole, pain-free, in the living room of our ridiculously large, empty house.

It was the night of our biggest fight, a week before the accident, a fight that had set the stage for the end.

"Liam, I' m tired of this," she said, tossing a black credit card onto the coffee table.

"Here. A million-dollar credit line. Go buy yourself whatever you want. Just stop acting like a wounded puppy every time I spend time with Ethan. It' s pathetic."

In my past life, her words had shattered me, driving me to refuse the card and plead for her love, a futile mistake.

But this time, I was reborn.

I calmly picked up the card, a chilling question forming on my lips: "So I can spend as much as I want?"

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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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