No More Handyman: His Last Stand

No More Handyman: His Last Stand

Gavin

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For three years, I poured my soul into Innovate, building Brittany' s startup from the ground up as her lead engineer and live-in boyfriend. I fixed her code, her leaky faucet, and every problem in her life, while she paid me a pittance, treating me like a glorified handyman. But at her success party, watching her beam at her ex-boyfriend Dylan, unveiled as the new "visionary," something inside me snapped. Then came the ultimate insult: demotion to Dylan' s assistant, his snakeskin boots propped on MY desk, MY awards tossed in a dusty box. The years of exploitation culminated in a single, burning question: how could someone I gave everything to treat me with such utter contempt? No more. I handed her my resignation, a meticulously itemized invoice for eighty-seven thousand dollars of unpaid work, and played a recording of her own words. "Forty-eight hours, Brittany," I said, pocketing my phone. "The clock is ticking." That night, I walked out of her apartment for good, the trash bag holding her memories of me thudding satisfyingly down the chute. This wasn' t just an exit; it was a declaration of war.

Introduction

For three years, I poured my soul into Innovate, building Brittany' s startup from the ground up as her lead engineer and live-in boyfriend.

I fixed her code, her leaky faucet, and every problem in her life, while she paid me a pittance, treating me like a glorified handyman.

But at her success party, watching her beam at her ex-boyfriend Dylan, unveiled as the new "visionary," something inside me snapped.

Then came the ultimate insult: demotion to Dylan' s assistant, his snakeskin boots propped on MY desk, MY awards tossed in a dusty box.

The years of exploitation culminated in a single, burning question: how could someone I gave everything to treat me with such utter contempt?

No more.

I handed her my resignation, a meticulously itemized invoice for eighty-seven thousand dollars of unpaid work, and played a recording of her own words.

"Forty-eight hours, Brittany," I said, pocketing my phone. "The clock is ticking."

That night, I walked out of her apartment for good, the trash bag holding her memories of me thudding satisfyingly down the chute.

This wasn' t just an exit; it was a declaration of war.

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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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