His Wife's Secret, His Burning Rage

His Wife's Secret, His Burning Rage

Gavin

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For six months, I clung to the belief my wife, Sophia, was in Europe saving her family's struggling hospital-the one I' d poured my career into. Then she came home, stepping out of the car beaming, but not alone; her personal assistant, Mark, was with her, pulling her luggage. "I have something wonderful to tell you," she chirped, taking my hand, her eyes betraying a nervous flutter. "I'm pregnant," she announced, placing a protective hand on her stomach. My heart soared until her gaze shifted to Mark, and she added, "It's not yours." The world spun. My wife, pregnant with another man's child, stood before me in my home. "I'm three months along," she offered, clinically. Before the shock could fully register, she brazenly declared, "I need you. The baby has a congenital heart defect. A procedure only you perfected." She wanted me to save her lover's child. I was a surgeon, not a pawn. "No," I choked out, but her mask crumbled, revealing a ruthless stranger. "You will. Or I'll divorce you, tell the world you refused to save an innocent child, ruin your reputation, and destroy the hospital you built." Then, a chilling memory resurfaced: our miscarriage, years ago. Sophia had been oddly dismissive then, saying, "It was just a bunch of cells. Don't be so dramatic." Now, overhearing her on the phone with Mark, it clicked: "I'm not going to do something stupid like go jet-skiing just to show off for you again. We learned our lesson, didn't we?" Jet-skiing. She' d been eight weeks pregnant with our child then. She' d risked our baby' s life to impress him. My child hadn't been an accident; it had been a calculated choice. The love I felt for her vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I would do the surgery. But the moment that child was stable, I would burn our lives to the ground and walk away.

Introduction

For six months, I clung to the belief my wife, Sophia, was in Europe saving her family's struggling hospital-the one I' d poured my career into.

Then she came home, stepping out of the car beaming, but not alone; her personal assistant, Mark, was with her, pulling her luggage.

"I have something wonderful to tell you," she chirped, taking my hand, her eyes betraying a nervous flutter.

"I'm pregnant," she announced, placing a protective hand on her stomach.

My heart soared until her gaze shifted to Mark, and she added, "It's not yours."

The world spun. My wife, pregnant with another man's child, stood before me in my home.

"I'm three months along," she offered, clinically.

Before the shock could fully register, she brazenly declared, "I need you. The baby has a congenital heart defect. A procedure only you perfected."

She wanted me to save her lover's child. I was a surgeon, not a pawn.

"No," I choked out, but her mask crumbled, revealing a ruthless stranger.

"You will. Or I'll divorce you, tell the world you refused to save an innocent child, ruin your reputation, and destroy the hospital you built."

Then, a chilling memory resurfaced: our miscarriage, years ago. Sophia had been oddly dismissive then, saying, "It was just a bunch of cells. Don't be so dramatic."

Now, overhearing her on the phone with Mark, it clicked: "I'm not going to do something stupid like go jet-skiing just to show off for you again. We learned our lesson, didn't we?"

Jet-skiing. She' d been eight weeks pregnant with our child then. She' d risked our baby' s life to impress him.

My child hadn't been an accident; it had been a calculated choice. The love I felt for her vanished, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

I would do the surgery. But the moment that child was stable, I would burn our lives to the ground and walk away.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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