His Devotion, Her Deception

His Devotion, Her Deception

Gavin

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The roar of the crowd was a distant hum as I stood backstage, a velvet box in my hand, ready to surprise Chloe-the woman I loved, the dancer poised for victory. Her voice, clear and musical, drifted through her dressing room door, casually dismissing me to the host: "Ethan? He' s just a suitor, one of many." Then came the colder blow, a dismissive laugh as she added, "Some people just have more money than sense... A bit of a gold-digger, you could say, just for status instead of money." The word "gold-digger" hit me like a physical punch, forcing the box containing the "Starry Night" necklace-a symbol of my months-long devotion and sacrifice-to clatter to the concrete floor. Suddenly, every anonymous donation, every chauffeur drive, every hidden act of support over the years twisted into a stark, humiliating truth: I hadn't been building a future; I had merely been funding her present. Later, in the lobby, she paraded a new man, Leo, as her "soul connection," while casually introducing me as an "old friend from back home," making sure to emphasize the word friend. Leo then went on to serenade her, turning his performance into a public jab at me, declaring, "Some gifts don't come in a box. They come from the soul. They can't be bought." The irony was suffocating. I, Ethan Miller, the "tech CEO" who had built an empire from nothing, was being cast as the materialistic fool, outshone by a performative, "spiritual" artist. And Chloe, the woman I loved more than anything, gave me a fleeting glance that screamed, "Don't make a scene." The love I held for her, so deep and foundational, began to crumble, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I walked out of that theater, leaving the illusion behind, knowing one thing for sure: if money was all I valued, at least money had never lied to me. But the real question remained: What was she really worth? And what was he hiding?

Introduction

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum as I stood backstage, a velvet box in my hand, ready to surprise Chloe-the woman I loved, the dancer poised for victory.

Her voice, clear and musical, drifted through her dressing room door, casually dismissing me to the host: "Ethan? He' s just a suitor, one of many."

Then came the colder blow, a dismissive laugh as she added, "Some people just have more money than sense... A bit of a gold-digger, you could say, just for status instead of money."

The word "gold-digger" hit me like a physical punch, forcing the box containing the "Starry Night" necklace-a symbol of my months-long devotion and sacrifice-to clatter to the concrete floor.

Suddenly, every anonymous donation, every chauffeur drive, every hidden act of support over the years twisted into a stark, humiliating truth: I hadn't been building a future; I had merely been funding her present.

Later, in the lobby, she paraded a new man, Leo, as her "soul connection," while casually introducing me as an "old friend from back home," making sure to emphasize the word friend.

Leo then went on to serenade her, turning his performance into a public jab at me, declaring, "Some gifts don't come in a box. They come from the soul. They can't be bought."

The irony was suffocating. I, Ethan Miller, the "tech CEO" who had built an empire from nothing, was being cast as the materialistic fool, outshone by a performative, "spiritual" artist.

And Chloe, the woman I loved more than anything, gave me a fleeting glance that screamed, "Don't make a scene."

The love I held for her, so deep and foundational, began to crumble, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

I walked out of that theater, leaving the illusion behind, knowing one thing for sure: if money was all I valued, at least money had never lied to me.

But the real question remained: What was she really worth? And what was he hiding?

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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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