Divorce, Design, and True Freedom

Divorce, Design, and True Freedom

Gavin

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The scent of expensive perfume and cheap ambition hung heavy in our penthouse, a silent testament to David' s reign. He paraded aspiring influencers through our home like trophies, their bright young faces a constant reminder of the life he flaunted. I, Sarah Miller, the successful interior designer, was merely an accessory, observing from the periphery as he draped his arm around a blonde named Tiffany, asking me to help her pick a profile theme color. My reflection in the glass showed a stillness, a silent defiance to his polished, empty smile. Later, after the glitter and champagne spills were gone, he cornered me, not with affection, but with business: "We need to be more aggressive with fertility treatments. I' ve scheduled you a new consultation for Monday." Three years of invasive tests, painful injections, and crushing disappointment, now weaponized against me. Then came the ultimate blow: he wanted to use a surrogate, one of them, for his legacy, expecting me to manage it. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest as he pulled me into a hollow embrace, whispering, "You' re the only one I love, Sarah." The very next day, a new girl, Emily, was paraded through the penthouse, her wide, innocent eyes mocking my reality. He kissed her, deeply, passionately, right in front of me, then looked straight into my eyes before turning back to her with a whisper that made her giggle. That night, sitting in my design studio, the last piece of this life that was truly mine, I drew a line. A final, absolute line that would redefine everything.

Introduction

The scent of expensive perfume and cheap ambition hung heavy in our penthouse, a silent testament to David' s reign.

He paraded aspiring influencers through our home like trophies, their bright young faces a constant reminder of the life he flaunted.

I, Sarah Miller, the successful interior designer, was merely an accessory, observing from the periphery as he draped his arm around a blonde named Tiffany, asking me to help her pick a profile theme color.

My reflection in the glass showed a stillness, a silent defiance to his polished, empty smile.

Later, after the glitter and champagne spills were gone, he cornered me, not with affection, but with business: "We need to be more aggressive with fertility treatments. I' ve scheduled you a new consultation for Monday."

Three years of invasive tests, painful injections, and crushing disappointment, now weaponized against me.

Then came the ultimate blow: he wanted to use a surrogate, one of them, for his legacy, expecting me to manage it.

The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest as he pulled me into a hollow embrace, whispering, "You' re the only one I love, Sarah."

The very next day, a new girl, Emily, was paraded through the penthouse, her wide, innocent eyes mocking my reality.

He kissed her, deeply, passionately, right in front of me, then looked straight into my eyes before turning back to her with a whisper that made her giggle.

That night, sitting in my design studio, the last piece of this life that was truly mine, I drew a line.

A final, absolute line that would redefine everything.

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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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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
5.0

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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