Unmasking My Cheating Wife

Unmasking My Cheating Wife

Gavin

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My daughter Emily' s sobs were the only sound in the car. Her dream, a spot in a prestigious summer research program, had vanished, "reallocated due to unforeseen administrative changes." But then, I saw the name on the payment authorization for the new candidate: Sarah Williams. My wife. The woman who was supposed to be at a spa retreat, who had hugged Emily that morning and told her how proud she was. In that single, searing moment, everything clicked: Sarah' s secretive phone calls, vague explanations for large credit card bills, and suspicious insistence on a supplementary card with a higher limit. It wasn' t a spa retreat; it was a lavish affair, funded by my company, and she was trying to buy her lover' s daughter a spot in Emily' s program. My blood ran cold. Betrayal wasn't a strong enough word. This was a demolition of my family, financed with my own money. "MARK, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO? ANSWER YOUR PHONE NOW!" Her voice, usually gentle, was now sharp and accusatory. There was no shame, only entitlement. I realized this wasn't a mistake; it was a pattern. She saw my generosity as a weakness to be exploited. "No," I said simply. "The cards are staying off." I looked at Kevin, the man who believed he held all the power. "You were saying something about winning? Let's see how long that feeling lasts."

Introduction

My daughter Emily' s sobs were the only sound in the car. Her dream, a spot in a prestigious summer research program, had vanished, "reallocated due to unforeseen administrative changes."

But then, I saw the name on the payment authorization for the new candidate: Sarah Williams. My wife. The woman who was supposed to be at a spa retreat, who had hugged Emily that morning and told her how proud she was.

In that single, searing moment, everything clicked: Sarah' s secretive phone calls, vague explanations for large credit card bills, and suspicious insistence on a supplementary card with a higher limit. It wasn' t a spa retreat; it was a lavish affair, funded by my company, and she was trying to buy her lover' s daughter a spot in Emily' s program.

My blood ran cold. Betrayal wasn't a strong enough word. This was a demolition of my family, financed with my own money.

"MARK, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO? ANSWER YOUR PHONE NOW!"

Her voice, usually gentle, was now sharp and accusatory. There was no shame, only entitlement. I realized this wasn't a mistake; it was a pattern. She saw my generosity as a weakness to be exploited.

"No," I said simply. "The cards are staying off." I looked at Kevin, the man who believed he held all the power. "You were saying something about winning? Let's see how long that feeling lasts."

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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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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
4.5

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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