Ashes of Betrayal, A Dying Wish

Ashes of Betrayal, A Dying Wish

Gavin

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"I have two requests." My voice was steadier than I expected, the phone heavy in my hand. Liam' s impatient sigh cut through the line. "Chloe, what the hell is this? We' re not anything anymore." I told him I was dying, a brain tumor. "I' ve chosen to end things on my own terms. Medically assisted." His response chilled me. "You' re lying. You' re doing this to ruin things for me. You always had a flair for the dramatic." The name Liam, once whispered in my sleep, now tasted like ash. My parents were gone, leaving me truly alone. Then, there they were: Liam and Bethany, my ex-fiancé and my former best friend, at our old restaurant. His smile vanished when he saw me, replaced by pure disgust. Bethany clung to him, her diamond sparkling. "We finally set the date!" she gushed. "October twenty-fifth!" My birthday. The day I was scheduled to die. I discovered the bitter truth in a dark cinema: Liam and Bethany' s affair began months before our breakup, a brutal betrayal hidden beneath his carefully crafted lies. He had not just left me; he had cheated, then let me blame myself. I confronted him, wounded by his callous admission: "It was easier that way. Less messy." He saw me as a drama queen, not a dying woman. He brought me to a hospital, still oblivious, convinced my collapse was hysterics. His final humiliation: demanding I pick songs for their wedding, his attempt to buy my silence for a thousand dollars. He hung up before I could refuse. He had left me no choice. I had to witness the depths of their betrayal, the audacity of Bethany' s wedding gift-a game console inspired by my intellectual property, inscribed with their wedding date, October 25th. It was a final, cruel twist of the knife, designed to erase me. But I had one final play. I would ensure Liam, the man who destroyed my life, would be there for its end. And I would deliver my final message, not in words, but in ashes, on his wedding day.

Introduction

"I have two requests." My voice was steadier than I expected, the phone heavy in my hand.

Liam' s impatient sigh cut through the line. "Chloe, what the hell is this? We' re not anything anymore."

I told him I was dying, a brain tumor. "I' ve chosen to end things on my own terms. Medically assisted."

His response chilled me. "You' re lying. You' re doing this to ruin things for me. You always had a flair for the dramatic."

The name Liam, once whispered in my sleep, now tasted like ash. My parents were gone, leaving me truly alone.

Then, there they were: Liam and Bethany, my ex-fiancé and my former best friend, at our old restaurant. His smile vanished when he saw me, replaced by pure disgust.

Bethany clung to him, her diamond sparkling. "We finally set the date!" she gushed. "October twenty-fifth!"

My birthday. The day I was scheduled to die.

I discovered the bitter truth in a dark cinema: Liam and Bethany' s affair began months before our breakup, a brutal betrayal hidden beneath his carefully crafted lies. He had not just left me; he had cheated, then let me blame myself.

I confronted him, wounded by his callous admission: "It was easier that way. Less messy."

He saw me as a drama queen, not a dying woman. He brought me to a hospital, still oblivious, convinced my collapse was hysterics.

His final humiliation: demanding I pick songs for their wedding, his attempt to buy my silence for a thousand dollars. He hung up before I could refuse.

He had left me no choice.

I had to witness the depths of their betrayal, the audacity of Bethany' s wedding gift-a game console inspired by my intellectual property, inscribed with their wedding date, October 25th.

It was a final, cruel twist of the knife, designed to erase me.

But I had one final play. I would ensure Liam, the man who destroyed my life, would be there for its end. And I would deliver my final message, not in words, but in ashes, on his wedding day.

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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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