Betrayal In White Roses

Betrayal In White Roses

Gavin

5.0
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My engagement party was supposed to be the culmination of seven years of love with Liam Miller, a public declaration before we started our lives as husband and wife. The room was filled with our closest friends and family, everything perfect, down to the white roses and the soft string quartet. But then, the video montage Liam prepared – a journey through our relationship – flickered. It cut to a sterile hospital room where Liam cradled a newborn baby with a tender joy I hadn't seen in years. Then the camera panned, revealing his assistant, Sarah Jenkins, in the hospital bed, wearing an engagement ring identical to mine. A collective gasp swept through the room as the music died, leaving deafening silence. Liam rushed to my side, whispering, "Chloe, calm down. Don't make a scene," before gaslighting everyone, calling it a "technical glitch" and dismissing my shock as "emotional." My world imploded. I stood there, humiliated, watching him protect her at my expense. The anger was cold and sharp as I walked to the stage, announcing, "It seems there's been a happy surprise. I wasn't aware we were celebrating two families tonight." I held up my hand, then pointed to Sarah, saying, "It seems Liam is a man of great generosity. So generous, in fact, that he's given out two of the same ring." I slid my diamond ring off and placed it on the tablecloth, telling him, "I wish you and Sarah double happiness. You clearly deserve each other." As I turned to leave, Liam grabbed my arm in the hallway, raging, "What the hell was that, Chloe? You humiliated me!" "You humiliated yourself, Liam," I retorted, realizing this wasn't just a betrayal; it was years of hidden lies. Back at our penthouse, a text from Sarah arrived with a photo of her wearing my custom-designed star-map bracelet-the one Liam was supposed to give me for my birthday next month. Her text read: "He says some things are just meant for the right person. Thanks for the design, Chloe. It's beautiful." The calculated cruelty of it stole the air from my lungs. Then Liam returned, offering a diamond necklace I' d seen on Sarah, trying to dismiss everything as "one mistake." He still didn't see it. He still chose her. After he left to care for their sick baby, my phone buzzed again with more texts from Sarah: screenshots revealing years of his lies-missed birthdays, fake business trips-all spent building a family with her. And then, a sharp pain shot through my abdomen. I was pregnant. Two months along. Our own happy surprise. The baby. Our baby felt like a part of his deception. I couldn' t tie myself to him, to this pain. The decision made itself: I would cut him out of my life completely.

Introduction

My engagement party was supposed to be the culmination of seven years of love with Liam Miller, a public declaration before we started our lives as husband and wife.

The room was filled with our closest friends and family, everything perfect, down to the white roses and the soft string quartet.

But then, the video montage Liam prepared – a journey through our relationship – flickered.

It cut to a sterile hospital room where Liam cradled a newborn baby with a tender joy I hadn't seen in years.

Then the camera panned, revealing his assistant, Sarah Jenkins, in the hospital bed, wearing an engagement ring identical to mine.

A collective gasp swept through the room as the music died, leaving deafening silence.

Liam rushed to my side, whispering, "Chloe, calm down. Don't make a scene," before gaslighting everyone, calling it a "technical glitch" and dismissing my shock as "emotional."

My world imploded.

I stood there, humiliated, watching him protect her at my expense.

The anger was cold and sharp as I walked to the stage, announcing, "It seems there's been a happy surprise. I wasn't aware we were celebrating two families tonight."

I held up my hand, then pointed to Sarah, saying, "It seems Liam is a man of great generosity. So generous, in fact, that he's given out two of the same ring."

I slid my diamond ring off and placed it on the tablecloth, telling him, "I wish you and Sarah double happiness. You clearly deserve each other."

As I turned to leave, Liam grabbed my arm in the hallway, raging, "What the hell was that, Chloe? You humiliated me!"

"You humiliated yourself, Liam," I retorted, realizing this wasn't just a betrayal; it was years of hidden lies.

Back at our penthouse, a text from Sarah arrived with a photo of her wearing my custom-designed star-map bracelet-the one Liam was supposed to give me for my birthday next month.

Her text read: "He says some things are just meant for the right person. Thanks for the design, Chloe. It's beautiful."

The calculated cruelty of it stole the air from my lungs.

Then Liam returned, offering a diamond necklace I' d seen on Sarah, trying to dismiss everything as "one mistake."

He still didn't see it. He still chose her.

After he left to care for their sick baby, my phone buzzed again with more texts from Sarah: screenshots revealing years of his lies-missed birthdays, fake business trips-all spent building a family with her.

And then, a sharp pain shot through my abdomen. I was pregnant. Two months along. Our own happy surprise.

The baby. Our baby felt like a part of his deception.

I couldn' t tie myself to him, to this pain.

The decision made itself: I would cut him out of my life completely.

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4.5

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

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