When Love Finds Its Way Home

When Love Finds Its Way Home

Gavin

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The digital timer in my vision pulsed, counting down to my supposed obliteration-ten minutes until my existence was wiped clean. Three years ago, a car crash stole my parents, leaving me, then just nineteen, to raise my two stepsons, Ethan and Caleb. I' d given up my Olympic dreams to give them a stable home. I believed their promises, that we were a family, that they would always protect me. Then Chloe Davis walked in, an intern, all wide eyes and sweet smiles, a delicate charm bracelet glinting on her wrist. From that day, I became their personal scapegoat, my achievements overshadowed, my talent exploited, all to bolster Chloe' s image. Last week, a sabotaged client presentation, files deleted, backups corrupted, and Chloe was responsible. But Ethan, in the crowded boardroom, turned to me, his face a cold mask: "Sarah, this is your fault." Caleb chimed in, refusing to meet my eyes, "Chloe is new, she's still learning. You should know better." They didn' t even ask, just saw Chloe' s tears and blamed me. I swallowed the familiar, bitter humiliation, the weight of their betrayal a physical pressure on my lungs. But today, I chose to fail. "I' m not abandoning it. I' m choosing to fail," I whispered to the empty room. [Decision confirmed. Initiating protocol for mission failure. The consequences are irreversible. Host will be held fully responsible.] The system' s voice was calm, but the penalty was clear: my existence would be erased, my "Goodness Value" transferred to Chloe. Then, the office door burst open. Ethan and Caleb stormed in, accusing me of sabotaging Chloe again. Chloe appeared, tear-streaked and fragile, playing victim once more. "Sarah, find the contract. Now. And then you are going to go out there and apologize to Chloe in front of everyone for stressing her out." I knew this was my final task, a deep dive into humiliation before freedom. I had nowhere left to go. So I stepped forward.

Introduction

The digital timer in my vision pulsed, counting down to my supposed obliteration-ten minutes until my existence was wiped clean.

Three years ago, a car crash stole my parents, leaving me, then just nineteen, to raise my two stepsons, Ethan and Caleb. I' d given up my Olympic dreams to give them a stable home.

I believed their promises, that we were a family, that they would always protect me.

Then Chloe Davis walked in, an intern, all wide eyes and sweet smiles, a delicate charm bracelet glinting on her wrist.

From that day, I became their personal scapegoat, my achievements overshadowed, my talent exploited, all to bolster Chloe' s image.

Last week, a sabotaged client presentation, files deleted, backups corrupted, and Chloe was responsible.

But Ethan, in the crowded boardroom, turned to me, his face a cold mask: "Sarah, this is your fault."

Caleb chimed in, refusing to meet my eyes, "Chloe is new, she's still learning. You should know better."

They didn' t even ask, just saw Chloe' s tears and blamed me.

I swallowed the familiar, bitter humiliation, the weight of their betrayal a physical pressure on my lungs.

But today, I chose to fail.

"I' m not abandoning it. I' m choosing to fail," I whispered to the empty room.

[Decision confirmed. Initiating protocol for mission failure. The consequences are irreversible. Host will be held fully responsible.]

The system' s voice was calm, but the penalty was clear: my existence would be erased, my "Goodness Value" transferred to Chloe.

Then, the office door burst open. Ethan and Caleb stormed in, accusing me of sabotaging Chloe again.

Chloe appeared, tear-streaked and fragile, playing victim once more.

"Sarah, find the contract. Now. And then you are going to go out there and apologize to Chloe in front of everyone for stressing her out."

I knew this was my final task, a deep dive into humiliation before freedom.

I had nowhere left to go.

So I stepped forward.

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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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