The Billionaire's Proxy Bride

The Billionaire's Proxy Bride

Gavin

5.0
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My life was a picture-perfect dream. At 21, married to the successful real estate titan Marcus Thorne, I lived in a Manhattan penthouse fit for royalty. He adored me, called me his "Muse," showering me with exquisite art and personal gestures. I was pregnant, and our future, with its "little masterpiece" on the way, felt utterly secure. Then I found a hidden compartment in Marcus's antique desk, revealing a chilling secret. Inside, a leather-bound scrapbook held dozens of photos of a woman strikingly similar to me-Isabelle Vance. A faded concert ticket, inscribed "For Izzy, my only dream, my eternal muse," confirmed my worst fear. My entire relationship, every tender word, every grand gesture, was a meticulously crafted lie, a painful echo of his past love. Humiliation and devastation washed over me, a physical blow to my gut. I, his beloved "Muse," was merely a stand-in. Our unborn child, conceived in this grand deception, twisted my insides. Brad, Marcus's best friend, accidentally revealed the truth: "Izzy's back! Thorne's already ditching the pregnant kid-bride!" Isabelle herself then flooded my phone with gloating photos and videos of her and Marcus, reliving their old haunts. Every cherished gift, every thoughtful act, was revealed to be a cruel mimicry of his love for her. I was trapped in a gilded cage built on a lie. How could I possibly live with this soul-crushing betrayal? Who was I, truly, if my entire existence within this marriage had been a substitute? The raw despair was unbearable, eclipsing everything. My resolve hardened, brutal and swift. I walked out of my illusionary life, leaving New York and Marcus Thorne, and began the painful process of reclaiming my own future.

Introduction

My life was a picture-perfect dream.

At 21, married to the successful real estate titan Marcus Thorne, I lived in a Manhattan penthouse fit for royalty.

He adored me, called me his "Muse," showering me with exquisite art and personal gestures.

I was pregnant, and our future, with its "little masterpiece" on the way, felt utterly secure.

Then I found a hidden compartment in Marcus's antique desk, revealing a chilling secret.

Inside, a leather-bound scrapbook held dozens of photos of a woman strikingly similar to me-Isabelle Vance.

A faded concert ticket, inscribed "For Izzy, my only dream, my eternal muse," confirmed my worst fear.

My entire relationship, every tender word, every grand gesture, was a meticulously crafted lie, a painful echo of his past love.

Humiliation and devastation washed over me, a physical blow to my gut.

I, his beloved "Muse," was merely a stand-in.

Our unborn child, conceived in this grand deception, twisted my insides.

Brad, Marcus's best friend, accidentally revealed the truth: "Izzy's back! Thorne's already ditching the pregnant kid-bride!"

Isabelle herself then flooded my phone with gloating photos and videos of her and Marcus, reliving their old haunts.

Every cherished gift, every thoughtful act, was revealed to be a cruel mimicry of his love for her.

I was trapped in a gilded cage built on a lie.

How could I possibly live with this soul-crushing betrayal?

Who was I, truly, if my entire existence within this marriage had been a substitute?

The raw despair was unbearable, eclipsing everything.

My resolve hardened, brutal and swift.

I walked out of my illusionary life, leaving New York and Marcus Thorne, and began the painful process of reclaiming my own future.

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When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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Billionaire's Regret, Too Late!

Billionaire's Regret, Too Late!

Ela Osaretin
5.0

"Lucien, let's get a divorce," I said in a peremptory tone that was long overdue, the most decisive farewell to this absurd marriage. We had been married for exactly three years-three years that, for me, were filled with nothing but endless loneliness and torment. For three years, the husband who should have stood by my side through every storm, Lucien Sullivan, had completely disappeared from my life as if he had never existed. He vanished without a trace, leaving me alone to endure this empty, desolate marriage. Today, I finally received his message: "I'm back. Come pick me up at the airport." When I read his words, my heart leapt with joy, and I raced to the airport, thinking that he finally understood my love and was coming back to me. But his cruelty was far worse than I could have ever imagined-he was accompanied by a pregnant woman, and that woman was Carla, my closest and most trusted friend. In that moment, all of my previous excitement, all my hope, and all of our shared laughter and tears turned into the sharpest of daggers, stabbing into my heart and leaving me gasping for air. Now, all I want is to escape from this place that has left me so broken-to lick my wounds in solitude. Even if these wounds will remain with me for the rest of my life, I refuse to have anything to do with him ever again. He should know that it was his own hand that trampled our love underfoot, that his coldness and betrayal created this irreparable situation. But when he heard those words, he desperately clung to this broken, crumbling marriage, unwilling to let it end-almost as though doing so could rewind time and return everything to how it used to be. "Aurora, come back. I regret everything!" Regret? Those simple words stirred no emotion in me-only endless sadness and fury. My heart let out a frantic, desperate scream: It's too late for any of this!

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