Beyond the Grave: My Ex-Husband's Ruin

Beyond the Grave: My Ex-Husband's Ruin

Gavin

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Three years after my death, my music mogul husband, Andrew Scott, sued my estate. His claim? That the bone marrow I donated to his starlet lover, Molly Clarkson, was failing her, causing her leukemia to relapse. I' m a ghost, tied to him, forced to watch him rage. He held a press conference, signing over my life' s work-my entire unreleased song catalog-to Molly, calling it a "gift." When that stunt didn' t work, he stormed to my family' s modest home, accusing me of faking my death, convinced I was just hiding. He dismissed my younger sister, Stella' s, pleas that I was dead, then brutally attacked my beloved three-legged terrier, Banjo, as a twisted warning. He boasted about financially bailing out my family, twisting the knife. But Andrew didn' t know the whole truth. I died from complications after the bone marrow procedure, critically weakened. I had a rare genetic condition, Fanconi anemia, which made the donation incredibly high-risk. The doctors Molly paid never told him, and they gave me a dangerously low dose of anesthesia, leaving me paralyzed but conscious, feeling every agonizing drill into my bones. I died less than two weeks later, while he celebrated Molly' s "remission" in Aspen. He believed the falsified hospital records saying I was discharged in stable condition, refusing to accept I was gone. Now, my spirit screamed as Andrew vowed to find me, threatening my family with unspeakable violence unless I reappeared. My grave was empty. My brother, Matthew, will bring me home.

Introduction

Three years after my death, my music mogul husband, Andrew Scott, sued my estate.

His claim? That the bone marrow I donated to his starlet lover, Molly Clarkson, was failing her, causing her leukemia to relapse.

I' m a ghost, tied to him, forced to watch him rage.

He held a press conference, signing over my life' s work-my entire unreleased song catalog-to Molly, calling it a "gift."

When that stunt didn' t work, he stormed to my family' s modest home, accusing me of faking my death, convinced I was just hiding.

He dismissed my younger sister, Stella' s, pleas that I was dead, then brutally attacked my beloved three-legged terrier, Banjo, as a twisted warning.

He boasted about financially bailing out my family, twisting the knife.

But Andrew didn' t know the whole truth.

I died from complications after the bone marrow procedure, critically weakened.

I had a rare genetic condition, Fanconi anemia, which made the donation incredibly high-risk.

The doctors Molly paid never told him, and they gave me a dangerously low dose of anesthesia, leaving me paralyzed but conscious, feeling every agonizing drill into my bones.

I died less than two weeks later, while he celebrated Molly' s "remission" in Aspen.

He believed the falsified hospital records saying I was discharged in stable condition, refusing to accept I was gone.

Now, my spirit screamed as Andrew vowed to find me, threatening my family with unspeakable violence unless I reappeared.

My grave was empty.

My brother, Matthew, will bring me home.

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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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