Shattered Crystal, Broken Love

Shattered Crystal, Broken Love

Gavin

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The crystal shattered, a scream tearing through the quiet afternoon. It was followed by a tiny, terrified gasp from my four-year-old daughter, Lily. I found her frozen in the doorway of Ethan' s study, surrounded by the glittering shards of his limited-edition crystal set. When Ethan appeared, a cold presence blocking the light, he didn' t look at Lily or me, only the broken crystals. "This was a gift," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "From Chloe." Chloe Davis, his spiritual mentor, the ghost in our marriage. "Ethan, it was an accident," I pleaded, shielding Lily. But he ignored me, pulling Lily from my grasp. "Discipline is not a punishment. It is a teaching." He dragged her toward the soundproof meditation room, her panicked sobs echoing: "No, Daddy! Not the quiet room! It' s dark!" "Ethan, no! She' s terrified of enclosed spaces!" I cried, but he pushed her inside. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing off her screams. When he finally let me out an hour later, Lily was gone. No pulse. No breath. Nothing. Hours later, the TV in the living room showed Ethan on a stage, smiling, declaring his devotion to Chloe. My heart shattered, replaced by a cold, hard thought. I called my lawyer. "It' s Sarah Miller. Please draft a divorce agreement for me." The doorbell rang. It was Ethan' s mother, Mrs. Hayes, offering me a staggering check for his "carelessness." "He wasn' t careless," I said, pushing it back. "He was cruel. Your son killed my daughter." I expected shock. I didn' t expect Chloe Davis to walk through my front door, looking like a distressed angel, instantly comforted by Ethan. As she hugged him, she looked at me with a flash of pure, triumphant victory. This wasn't an accident. This was an execution, and she orchestrated it. The cold emptiness inside me ignited into a white-hot rage.

Introduction

The crystal shattered, a scream tearing through the quiet afternoon.

It was followed by a tiny, terrified gasp from my four-year-old daughter, Lily.

I found her frozen in the doorway of Ethan' s study, surrounded by the glittering shards of his limited-edition crystal set.

When Ethan appeared, a cold presence blocking the light, he didn' t look at Lily or me, only the broken crystals.

"This was a gift," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "From Chloe."

Chloe Davis, his spiritual mentor, the ghost in our marriage.

"Ethan, it was an accident," I pleaded, shielding Lily.

But he ignored me, pulling Lily from my grasp. "Discipline is not a punishment. It is a teaching."

He dragged her toward the soundproof meditation room, her panicked sobs echoing: "No, Daddy! Not the quiet room! It' s dark!"

"Ethan, no! She' s terrified of enclosed spaces!" I cried, but he pushed her inside.

The heavy door clicked shut, sealing off her screams.

When he finally let me out an hour later, Lily was gone.

No pulse. No breath. Nothing.

Hours later, the TV in the living room showed Ethan on a stage, smiling, declaring his devotion to Chloe.

My heart shattered, replaced by a cold, hard thought.

I called my lawyer. "It' s Sarah Miller. Please draft a divorce agreement for me."

The doorbell rang. It was Ethan' s mother, Mrs. Hayes, offering me a staggering check for his "carelessness."

"He wasn' t careless," I said, pushing it back. "He was cruel. Your son killed my daughter."

I expected shock. I didn' t expect Chloe Davis to walk through my front door, looking like a distressed angel, instantly comforted by Ethan.

As she hugged him, she looked at me with a flash of pure, triumphant victory.

This wasn't an accident. This was an execution, and she orchestrated it.

The cold emptiness inside me ignited into a white-hot rage.

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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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