Replaced By A Lie, Forged By Truth

Replaced By A Lie, Forged By Truth

Gavin

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The grand ballroom shimmered with the scent of ambition, a fitting stage for Mark Davis, the rising tech star I, Sarah Miller, had silently supported for five years. I designed his interfaces, polished his presentations, and poured my heart into his vision. Tonight, the launch of his "Aura" project, was meant to be our triumph, a celebration of what we built together. Then the spotlight found him on stage, proclaiming there was "one true genius" behind it all. My stomach tightened, anticipating a subtle nod, a shared glance. Instead, his gaze swept past me, landing on Emily Chen, my junior colleague, angelic in white, her eyes wide with feigned admiration. "That true genius," he boomed, "is Emily Chen!" A wave of gasps, then silence, as he dropped to one knee before her, pulling out a velvet box. "Emily, you are the future. Will you marry me?" The room erupted as he slid a massive diamond onto her finger. I was invisible, erased from my own story. My simple black dress suddenly felt like a shroud. I slipped away, my lungs burning, to a deserted corridor, where he found me, annoyed. "It's just business, Sarah," he said, flatly. "Emily has the connections. You're a great designer, but you're... a placeholder." He offered me a demeaning junior position under her or a "dead-end job" at a struggling startup run by "some nobody." The words, cold and sharp, cut deeper than any physical blow. His smug face expected me to break, to beg. But the humiliation burned away the shock, leaving a cold, hard clarity. My five years of love, loyalty, and hard work meant nothing to him. "I'll take the startup," I said, meeting his gaze, my voice steady.

Introduction

The grand ballroom shimmered with the scent of ambition, a fitting stage for Mark Davis, the rising tech star I, Sarah Miller, had silently supported for five years. I designed his interfaces, polished his presentations, and poured my heart into his vision. Tonight, the launch of his "Aura" project, was meant to be our triumph, a celebration of what we built together.

Then the spotlight found him on stage, proclaiming there was "one true genius" behind it all. My stomach tightened, anticipating a subtle nod, a shared glance.

Instead, his gaze swept past me, landing on Emily Chen, my junior colleague, angelic in white, her eyes wide with feigned admiration. "That true genius," he boomed, "is Emily Chen!"

A wave of gasps, then silence, as he dropped to one knee before her, pulling out a velvet box. "Emily, you are the future. Will you marry me?" The room erupted as he slid a massive diamond onto her finger.

I was invisible, erased from my own story. My simple black dress suddenly felt like a shroud. I slipped away, my lungs burning, to a deserted corridor, where he found me, annoyed.

"It's just business, Sarah," he said, flatly. "Emily has the connections. You're a great designer, but you're... a placeholder." He offered me a demeaning junior position under her or a "dead-end job" at a struggling startup run by "some nobody." The words, cold and sharp, cut deeper than any physical blow.

His smug face expected me to break, to beg. But the humiliation burned away the shock, leaving a cold, hard clarity. My five years of love, loyalty, and hard work meant nothing to him.

"I'll take the startup," I said, meeting his gaze, my voice steady.

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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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