The Price of His Control

The Price of His Control

Gavin

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The rain that had veiled Emily' s funeral still clung to my black dress as I approached Mark' s gleaming penthouse, a place that now felt like a tomb. The elevator opened directly into the living room, and the first thing I heard was Mark' s easy laughter, a sound that felt like a physical blow. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious, while I, his fiancée, had just buried my little sister. His eyes swept over me, from my damp hair to my scuffed shoes, and disgust flickered across his features. "Sarah. What are you doing? You didn' t follow protocol," he hissed, stepping back as if I carried a plague. Then, he grabbed the worn leather purse Emily gave me, holding it like a dead rat before dropping it into his high-tech trash chute. "Now go," he commanded. "Get out. And don' t come back up until you' re clean." That' s when I saw it. He wasn' t afraid of germs. He was afraid of losing control. He never touched my dying sister, citing "contamination risk," but freely shared mai tais with his assistant, Lisa, and her family in Hawaii, while Emily withered in an impersonal hospice. Every humiliating cleansing ritual, every compromised dream, every sacrifice I made for this man-it was never about love. It was about breaking me, about proving I was worth nothing. Something inside me, long dormant, finally shattered. I didn' t go to the sanitation suite. I walked out of that building, leaving behind his sterile, loveless world. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was never going back.

Introduction

The rain that had veiled Emily' s funeral still clung to my black dress as I approached Mark' s gleaming penthouse, a place that now felt like a tomb.

The elevator opened directly into the living room, and the first thing I heard was Mark' s easy laughter, a sound that felt like a physical blow.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, oblivious, while I, his fiancée, had just buried my little sister.

His eyes swept over me, from my damp hair to my scuffed shoes, and disgust flickered across his features.

"Sarah. What are you doing? You didn' t follow protocol," he hissed, stepping back as if I carried a plague.

Then, he grabbed the worn leather purse Emily gave me, holding it like a dead rat before dropping it into his high-tech trash chute.

"Now go," he commanded. "Get out. And don' t come back up until you' re clean."

That' s when I saw it. He wasn' t afraid of germs. He was afraid of losing control.

He never touched my dying sister, citing "contamination risk," but freely shared mai tais with his assistant, Lisa, and her family in Hawaii, while Emily withered in an impersonal hospice.

Every humiliating cleansing ritual, every compromised dream, every sacrifice I made for this man-it was never about love.

It was about breaking me, about proving I was worth nothing.

Something inside me, long dormant, finally shattered.

I didn' t go to the sanitation suite.

I walked out of that building, leaving behind his sterile, loveless world.

I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was never going back.

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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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