Too Late For Sorry

Too Late For Sorry

Gavin

5.0
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The news broke on a Tuesday. Olivia Reynolds, a celebrated artist, found herself targeted by a major art blog accusing her of blatant plagiarism. Her acclaimed piece, "Urban Echo," was displayed side-by-side with similar works by an unknown European artist, igniting a war zone of online comments declaring her a "Fraud" and calling to "Cancel her." Her boyfriend, Ethan Miller, a respected art critic, didn't defend her. Instead, he confessed to orchestrating the whole thing to protect his protégé, Chloe Davis, claiming Chloe had made a "youthful mistake." He dismissed Olivia's pain as "dramatic" and a "performance," highlighting her struggle with depression as mere "attention." The betrayal only deepened when her gallery terminated its representation, cancelling all her shows. Chloe, feigning empathy, then explicitly told Olivia that Ethan had chosen her because her career was "more important," rubbing salt in the wound until Olivia shattered a glass in a fit of despair, cutting her hand. Ethan, without a glance at Olivia's injury, sided with Chloe, who accused Olivia of attacking her. Ethan and Chloe were seen making their official debut at a gala, dancing on Olivia's professional grave. A text message then arrived, "You should kill yourself, you thieving bitch," accompanied by a photo of her with a gun pointed at her head. Standing on her balcony, teetering on the edge, Olivia made one last desperate call to Ethan. "I'm on the ledge, Ethan," she whispered. But he laughed, dismissing her plea as a bid for "attention." The line went dead as Chloe's laughter echoed in the background. With nowhere else to turn, Olivia stepped into the void.

Introduction

The news broke on a Tuesday. Olivia Reynolds, a celebrated artist, found herself targeted by a major art blog accusing her of blatant plagiarism.

Her acclaimed piece, "Urban Echo," was displayed side-by-side with similar works by an unknown European artist, igniting a war zone of online comments declaring her a "Fraud" and calling to "Cancel her."

Her boyfriend, Ethan Miller, a respected art critic, didn't defend her. Instead, he confessed to orchestrating the whole thing to protect his protégé, Chloe Davis, claiming Chloe had made a "youthful mistake." He dismissed Olivia's pain as "dramatic" and a "performance," highlighting her struggle with depression as mere "attention."

The betrayal only deepened when her gallery terminated its representation, cancelling all her shows. Chloe, feigning empathy, then explicitly told Olivia that Ethan had chosen her because her career was "more important," rubbing salt in the wound until Olivia shattered a glass in a fit of despair, cutting her hand. Ethan, without a glance at Olivia's injury, sided with Chloe, who accused Olivia of attacking her.

Ethan and Chloe were seen making their official debut at a gala, dancing on Olivia's professional grave. A text message then arrived, "You should kill yourself, you thieving bitch," accompanied by a photo of her with a gun pointed at her head.

Standing on her balcony, teetering on the edge, Olivia made one last desperate call to Ethan. "I'm on the ledge, Ethan," she whispered. But he laughed, dismissing her plea as a bid for "attention." The line went dead as Chloe's laughter echoed in the background. With nowhere else to turn, Olivia stepped into the void.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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