The Scheming Husband's Downfall

The Scheming Husband's Downfall

Gavin

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The phone rang, shattering the quiet. It was the police. My parents. Gone. Just like that. My world collapsed, leaving me drowning in debt and sorrow. Then, Ethan Miller, my fiancé, stepped in, a savior from a powerful family. He handled everything, defying his grandfather, who despised me as the "daughter of a bankrupt failure." We married, and for five years, he was the perfect husband, encouraging my dreams of rebuilding. I poured my soul into ninety-nine startups, each failing catastrophically. Investors pulled out, competitors mimicked my ideas, my data leaked. Ethan always picked up the pieces, assuring me, "The tech world is brutal. We'll try again." On the anniversary of our first date, I decided to surprise him at his office with red roses. But the door was ajar, and I heard him talking to his best friend, Chad. "Every one of Olivia's 'failures' has been a building block for Sarah's success," Ethan said, his voice light with amusement. Sarah Chen. His childhood sweetheart. The rising tech star I'd always admired. "So you gave her Olivia's data? Again?" Chad asked. "Of course. Sarah needed it. Olivia is... a great incubator for ideas," Ethan replied. The roses slipped from my hand, scattering on the cold marble floor. My ninety-nine failures weren't bad luck. They were deliberate sabotage, orchestrated by my own husband. He didn't save me; he married me to steal my ideas, my soul, for another woman. The heartbreak was immense, but underneath it, a cold, hard fury stirred. He thought I was weak, a failure he could control. He was wrong. I turned and ran, not from fear, but ignited by a single, burning decision. I was done with this life. I would not just leave. I would burn their world to the ground.

Introduction

The phone rang, shattering the quiet.

It was the police.

My parents. Gone. Just like that.

My world collapsed, leaving me drowning in debt and sorrow.

Then, Ethan Miller, my fiancé, stepped in, a savior from a powerful family.

He handled everything, defying his grandfather, who despised me as the "daughter of a bankrupt failure."

We married, and for five years, he was the perfect husband, encouraging my dreams of rebuilding.

I poured my soul into ninety-nine startups, each failing catastrophically.

Investors pulled out, competitors mimicked my ideas, my data leaked.

Ethan always picked up the pieces, assuring me, "The tech world is brutal. We'll try again."

On the anniversary of our first date, I decided to surprise him at his office with red roses.

But the door was ajar, and I heard him talking to his best friend, Chad.

"Every one of Olivia's 'failures' has been a building block for Sarah's success," Ethan said, his voice light with amusement.

Sarah Chen. His childhood sweetheart. The rising tech star I'd always admired.

"So you gave her Olivia's data? Again?" Chad asked.

"Of course. Sarah needed it. Olivia is... a great incubator for ideas," Ethan replied.

The roses slipped from my hand, scattering on the cold marble floor.

My ninety-nine failures weren't bad luck. They were deliberate sabotage, orchestrated by my own husband.

He didn't save me; he married me to steal my ideas, my soul, for another woman.

The heartbreak was immense, but underneath it, a cold, hard fury stirred.

He thought I was weak, a failure he could control.

He was wrong.

I turned and ran, not from fear, but ignited by a single, burning decision.

I was done with this life. I would not just leave.

I would burn their world to the ground.

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He Saved Her, I Lost Our Child

He Saved Her, I Lost Our Child

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For three years, I kept a secret ledger of my husband's sins. A point system to decide exactly when I would leave Blake Santos, the ruthless Underboss of Chicago. I thought the final straw would be him forgetting our anniversary dinner to comfort his "childhood friend," Ariana. I was wrong. The real breaking point came when the restaurant ceiling collapsed. In that split second, Blake didn't look at me. He dove to his right, shielding Ariana with his body, leaving me to be crushed under a half-ton crystal chandelier. I woke up in a sterile hospital room with a shattered leg and a hollow womb. The doctor, trembling and pale, told me my eight-week-old fetus hadn't survived the trauma and blood loss. "We tried to get the O-negative reserves," he stammered, refusing to meet my eyes. "But Dr. Santos ordered us to hold them. He said Miss Whitfield might go into shock from her injuries." "What injuries?" I whispered. "A laceration on her finger," the doctor admitted. "And anxiety." He let our unborn child die to save the blood reserves for his mistress’s paper cut. Blake finally walked into my room hours later, smelling of Ariana’s perfume, expecting me to be the dutiful, silent wife who understood his "duty." Instead, I picked up my pen and wrote the final entry in my black leather book. *Minus five points. He killed our child.* *Total Score: Zero.* I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just signed the divorce papers, called my extraction team, and vanished into the rain before he could turn around.

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