Reborn: A Husband's Vengeful Love

Reborn: A Husband's Vengeful Love

Gavin

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The last thing I remembered was the freezing cold of a lonely alley, the bitter taste of cheap whiskey, and the image of a newspaper: a glossy photo of my ex-wife, Sarah, and her new husband, Mark Thompson, cradling their perfect baby. My final breath fogged in the winter air as I died with the brutal truth ringing in my mind. I had failed them-my son, Leo, and my mother, Susan, both lying in fresh graves, victims of Sarah' s abandonment and my naive loyalty. For four years, I toiled, clinging to her empty promises, while they withered away from neglect and poverty in our crumbling home. I' d even sold a kidney to save them, but the money came too late; my mother starved, and Leo succumbed to a preventable fever. At their funeral, Sarah returned not to mourn, but to accuse, to divorce, and to flaunt her new life with Mark-a life built on our ruins. Then, a sharp, ragged gasp tore through me. I wasn' t in an alley, but on the cold, splintered floorboards of my own bedroom, the air thick with the scent of sickness. My heart hammered as I saw them: my mother, Susan, frail but breathing, and Leo, flushed with fever but alive, nestled in his crib. A quick glance at the calendar confirmed it: three days before their deaths. The raw grief, fused with a cold, hard rage, ignited a fire in my gut. No more silence. No more waiting. "Mom," I declared, my voice steady, "We' re leaving. We' re going to find Sarah." I had a second chance, and this time, I wouldn' t just survive; I would make them pay.

Introduction

The last thing I remembered was the freezing cold of a lonely alley, the bitter taste of cheap whiskey, and the image of a newspaper: a glossy photo of my ex-wife, Sarah, and her new husband, Mark Thompson, cradling their perfect baby.

My final breath fogged in the winter air as I died with the brutal truth ringing in my mind.

I had failed them-my son, Leo, and my mother, Susan, both lying in fresh graves, victims of Sarah' s abandonment and my naive loyalty.

For four years, I toiled, clinging to her empty promises, while they withered away from neglect and poverty in our crumbling home.

I' d even sold a kidney to save them, but the money came too late; my mother starved, and Leo succumbed to a preventable fever.

At their funeral, Sarah returned not to mourn, but to accuse, to divorce, and to flaunt her new life with Mark-a life built on our ruins.

Then, a sharp, ragged gasp tore through me.

I wasn' t in an alley, but on the cold, splintered floorboards of my own bedroom, the air thick with the scent of sickness.

My heart hammered as I saw them: my mother, Susan, frail but breathing, and Leo, flushed with fever but alive, nestled in his crib.

A quick glance at the calendar confirmed it: three days before their deaths.

The raw grief, fused with a cold, hard rage, ignited a fire in my gut.

No more silence.

No more waiting.

"Mom," I declared, my voice steady, "We' re leaving. We' re going to find Sarah."

I had a second chance, and this time, I wouldn' t just survive; I would make them pay.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.3

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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