Gavin
Gavin's Books(1782)
My Heiress Life, My System
Short stories Chapter 1 of my life was a fairy tale: Jocelyn Todd, orphan no more, adopted by the wealthy Scott family and about to marry a charming scion. My engagement party was a lavish spectacle, a testament to the love and affection I' d finally found. Standing beside my "protective" older brother, Andrew, watching my fiancé Ethan across the lawn, I finally felt loved, complete. But then, as I took my first step towards my future, my world fractured.
Bright, glowing text flooded my vision, overlaying the perfect scene: "LOL, she' s actually crying. A few worthless stock certificates and she' s totally fooled. So naive." My family' s affectionate smiles transformed into chilling masks as I read on, discovering their monstrous plan. The year of love was a performance, and I was merely a prop to boost their "Likeability Score." Once official, they'd frame me for a corporate crime, strip me of everything, and dispose of me, all to benefit Gabby, their real "daughter."
The warmth in my chest turned to ice. They weren't just betraying me; they were orchestrating my destruction. My "parents," "brother," and fiancé-all in on it. They saw me as a disposable pawn, intended for a tragic, convenient "accident." The thought of facing this chilling reality, alone and betrayed, was paralyzing.
But then, a defiant spark ignited. My tears weren't of gratitude anymore, but of cold, hard resolve. I still clutched the portfolio of "worthless" stock, and a new comment flashed: "The certificates are fakes!..." It was all a lie. I took a deep breath, the trembling in my voice purely intentional. "Before we make it official," I smiled sweetly, holding up the portfolio, "could we have the family lawyer notarize this transfer right now?" The panic on their faces, the sudden plummet of their "score," confirmed everything. My supposed doom was their control. This wasn't merely survival; it was war. From Fiancée to Felon
Short stories My fiancé, Warden Rex Thorne, was the most powerful man in the state, and I was about to marry him. His promotion party glowed with our future.
Then, a shattering scream. Rex' s stepsister, Brenda, stumbled in, clothes torn, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She attacked me! She said she' d kill me!"
The room went silent. Rex' s eyes, once full of love, turned to ice. Without a single question, he declared, "You are no longer my fiancée. You are an inmate." He sentenced me to ten years in the chilling, forgotten Old Wing of Blackstone Penitentiary.
No trial. No defense. Just banishment by the man I loved, based on a single, venomous lie. How could he believe such a monstrous accusation without a shred of doubt? What dark secret was Brenda hiding to wield such power?
My life, once bathed in promised happiness, was now swallowed by the shadows of a brutal prison, where every day was a fight for survival, and the truth was buried deeper than any grave. But in the darkness, a silent protector would emerge, and together, we would uncover the shocking conspiracy that stole my life. Beyond the Betrayal: Her New Beginning
Short stories I woke up, not from sleep, but like snapping back into a nightmare I'd already lived. The cramped cabin's stale air, pine scent – hauntingly familiar. Jake stood there, hand out, his voice wheedling: "Sarah, Brenda needs that locket."
Brenda. The name sent a cold shiver down my spine. My mother' s locket was still at my neck. Last time, I' d blindly given it to them, believing Brenda' s lies about feeling close to my mom. It was my first, fatal mistake.
Brenda claimed it brought her luck, and it did. For her. While I… I died. On a remote hiking trail, an "accident" watched by both Brenda and Jake. His shifty eyes, fixed on me, pushed the same line: "Brenda just feels so close to your mom with it." A predator, I thought.
A searing memory flashed: Brenda flaunting my locket, smiling, as I lay broken in that ravine, utterly abandoned. The betrayal, agony, my sickening idiocy pursuing love that led to my death. The sheer injustice burned.
But not again. "The locket?" I feigned confusion. "Oh, I think I lost it." His face fell. Good. This time, I would live. I would fight. I just needed to hold on ten more days. My brother, Major Mike Collins, was coming. The Angel Who Burned: A Small Town's Inferno
Short stories Sarah Miller was the epitome of small-town success: valedictorian, destined for a full scholarship at State University, a beacon of hope.
Everyone in our tight-knit community called her an angel, a ray of sunshine, always with a bright smile.
Just hours after delivering a graduation speech full of dreams, she was supposed to be celebrating with friends and family.
But as the community hall burned, its roof collapsing in a fiery roar, Sarah stood across the street, motionless, her face illuminated by the inferno.
The smell of burning wood, and something else, something sickening, filled the air, as sparks flew like angry fireflies.
When Officer Kowski grabbed her arm, she showed no fear, only an unsettling calm, soot smeared on her hands.
Then, she whispered the chilling words: "They all deserved to die."
Her parents, reeling from disbelief, watched their daughter admit to mass murder, their tears mingling with raw, ragged pain.
The town, still mourning their "heroes"-Pastor David, Mr. Henderson-couldn't reconcile the angelic Sarah with the monster she confessed to being.
Her subsequent suicide attempt in her cell only deepened the mystery, pills traced back to Henderson's private stash.
The discovery of burned journal fragments suggested hidden truths, a desperate, unspoken anguish.
What unspeakable evil could turn a scholarship-bound valedictorian into a mass murderer?
How could the very men lauded as benefactors, who "loved her like their own daughter," inspire such cold, vengeful fire?
The town saw kindness and support, but Sarah' s hollow whisper of "Care?" hinted at an unimaginable betrayal.
What dark secret did this 'angel' carry, hidden beneath years of forced smiles and perfect grades?
Then, Sarah finally shattered the silence, not with tears, but with a guttural scream: "They deserved it! They all deserved it!"
And the terrifying, heartbreaking story, a torrent of buried pain, began to pour out, revealing the true horrors lurking beneath their idyllic small town. A Thousand Scars: Ava's Awakening
Short stories Ava Chen stood beside Julian Vance, tech billionaire, her fiancé.
Tonight was their engagement announcement at a dazzling Silicon Valley gala.
Everything seemed picture-perfect.
Then, the ballroom doors opened, and in walked Seraphina Reed, Julian' s ex, the "White Redwood."
Julian froze, dropping Ava' s hand, and sprinted towards Seraphina, leaving Ava abandoned on the dais.
The engagement was "indefinitely postponed," as Ava watched Julian devour Seraphina with his eyes.
Ava realized she was merely a substitute, a colder version of the woman Julian truly wanted.
Her loyal assistant, Maya, was killed in a hit-and-run, orchestrated by Julian and Seraphina.
Her diplomat father and journalist brother were publicly disgraced, their reputations ruined by Julian' s fabricated scandal.
Imprisoned in a gilded cage, she endured relentless torment.
Her college sweetheart, Liam, her only hope, was shot dead during a rescue attempt by Julian.
The world had stolen everything: love, family, freedom, hope, and even a child she never knew she had, lost due to Julian' s violence.
How could one man inflict such brutal, calculated destruction?
Her despair hardened into an icy, unyielding will.
With Liam's final whispered password, Ava found a way to turn her pain into power.
She would dismantle Julian' s empire, piece by agonizing piece.
This wasn't just survival; this was war. Too Late For Their Love: The North Star Shines Bright
Short stories My biological parents were tech billionaires, yet for me, Sarah Miller, every penny was a battleground. They preached "character" and "tough love," while lavishing everything on Ashley, their "perfect" adopted daughter, who got whatever she wanted.
On SAT day, a torrential storm hit. I desperately needed $50 for an Uber to reach the crucial exam on time. My father, flaunting his self-made fortune, snatched my emergency cash – saved from months of skipping lunch – and sneered, "Spoiled brat! Build character."
I arrived soaking wet and an hour late, my SATs a blur of cold and despair. Then, on a classmate' s phone, I saw it: A live social media feed of my parents hosting a multi-million dollar bash for Ashley. The reason? She'd won a minor school debate.
My mother' s caption gloated, "So proud of our Ashley! #ProudParents #HarrisonLegacy." Millions for Ashley' s 'tests' were fine, but $50 for my future was an exorbitant luxury. Every hope, every scraped-together crumb of affection I'd ever craved, evaporated. Why did they despise their own daughter so much? What had I, their flesh and blood, ever done to earn such icy disdain?
In that moment, something inside me snapped. The desperate girl who clung to their approval died. My local college applications lay torn. My illusions, finally, shattered. And I knew: I was done. Silence On The Main Stage
Short stories My name is Ethan Lester. I' m a humble community college music teacher, engaged to Nicole Anderson, a brilliant Silicon Valley CEO.
She worships an anonymous DJ, "Aethel," whose music, she says, saved her from deep depression.
She doesn't know "Aethel" is me.
After our engagement party, I saw a text on her phone, not meant for my eyes.
It was from her assistant, Brian: "He' s boring. He' ll never understand you like I do. Like Aethel does."
Her reply shattered my world: "I know, my Aethel. I' ll handle him. The festival is all that matters."
I followed her to a penthouse where she funded Brian' s music studio and promised him a headline festival spot – my comeback.
I registered for the Electric Odyssey festival under my real name, determined to expose the fraud.
But backstage, just before my performance, two men grabbed me.
Then, they broke my hands.
Pain erupted as my bones snapped. My career, my identity, gone in an instant.
As my vision blurred, Nicole emerged from the shadows.
"Electric Odyssey is for ' Aethel' !" she snarled, her voice cruel. "I' ll destroy anyone who threatens his comeback, including you."
She watched me bleed, letting me lie broken on the cold concrete.
I woke up in my own bed, gasping, my hands miraculously whole.
I grabbed my phone: The date was ten days before the festival.
I was back, with the terrifying memory of my murder fresh in my mind, courtesy of my fiancée.
This time, I wouldn' t be the one getting destroyed. Poisoned Cupcakes, Poisoned Heart
Short stories My life as a librarian in a small Southern town was perfect, a sun-drenched dream.
My new husband, Mark, was solid and dependable.
And then, two pink lines: triplets.
My heart swelled, a joy so big it almost hurt.
But the whisper started, directly in my mind.
"I hope Mommy Sarah likes the special cupcakes I made just for her."
It was Chloe, Mark' s sweet-faced ten-year-old daughter.
A cold dread, sharp and familiar, sliced through me.
It wasn' t just a dream, it was a terrifying memory of a life I' d lived before, a future so certain it felt like the past.
Chloe, innocent smile, offering poisoned cupcakes.
Me, trusting, then fire, loss, and darkness.
My unborn babies and I, gone.
"Sarah, honey, look what Chloe made for you!" Mark boomed, holding a plate of bright cupcakes.
I gasped, faking sudden morning sickness.
Panicked, I offered them to Mark.
Chloe' s innocent mask flickered; panic flashed in her eyes when I suggested Mark try one.
She snatched the plate, claiming they were only for me.
A cupcake fell, and our golden retriever, Buddy, gobbled the frosting.
Minutes later, Buddy was violently retching, poisoned.
The vet confirmed it: household cleaner.
Chloe burst into tears, feigning an accident, but her projected thought was chilling: "Stupid dog. Almost ruined everything."
Mark, heartbroken by Buddy' s illness, was blinded by her act.
He looked at me, full of concern for Chloe.
"It was just a terrible mistake, Sarah. She' s just a child."
He didn' t know.
He couldn't hear the venom, the calculation, the hidden hatred aimed at me and my unborn children.
How could I make him see the truth when the enemy wore a child' s face and spoke only in my mind?
A new, icy fear coiled around the warmth of my babies.
This was just the beginning. Ivy League, Interrupted
Short stories I was Chloe, the Ashtons' beloved adopted daughter for eighteen perfect years, secure in my identity as I eagerly awaited SATs and an Ivy League future. But then came the dream: a chilling premonition of a stranger, Olivia, claiming my parents, sabotaging my SATs, and tearing my world apart. I woke up terrified, dismissing it as stress. Until that evening, the doorbell rang. There she was. Olivia. Tearful, shaky, telling Mom and Dad Ashton, "I think you're my mother." My blood ran cold.
Just like the dream, she settled in, a constant, unsettling presence. To my parents, she was perfect. To me, her eyes were cold, filled with malicious glee. She whispered lies, implying my life should have been hers, painting my biological family as poor and neglectful. She tried to sabotage my SATs, disabling my alarms and offering tainted food, and even snatched my cherished locket from my neck.
A terrible feeling washed over me as the dream unfolded, every detail unnervingly accurate. How could this be happening? Why was she so bent on destroying me? It wasn't just unfair; it felt supernatural. But through my dread, a strange clarity emerged: this wasn't just a nightmare. It was a warning.
I remembered dream-Olivia, the one who smiled as my world crumpled. This time, I wouldn't let it happen. Armed with foresight, I wouldn't just survive; I would fight back. I knew this was just the beginning, but I also knew exactly how to change the ending. My High School Sweetheart, Reimagined
Short stories The preacher' s voice echoed in the barn as I stood at the altar, ready to marry Jocelyn, my high school sweetheart. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but all I saw was the twisted metal of a Ford Explorer.
In another life, our 25th wedding anniversary ended with a phone call: "Your wife... she didn't make it. She wasn't alone, sir. A man was with her. Ryan Scott."
The grief was a physical wound, but the betrayal poisoned twenty-five years of my life. Now, miraculously, I was back. Reborn on this very day, given a second chance.
Not to fix it, but to end it before it began.
"No," I declared, cutting through the vows like a gunshot. Jocelyn' s smile faltered, confusion widening her perfect eyes. A cold fury fueled me as I told her I didn' t love her anymore, then leaped from the loft, limping away from the life of quiet misery I refused to live again.
But despite my escape, she kept coming back – cleaning my apartment, charming my parents. It had to be about money, I reasoned, rumors of her family' s debt swirling. I even offered her a financial bailout, demanding she leave me alone.
"You think this is about money?" she whispered, tears streaming. "I came back, too! I came back for you!" Her words shattered my carefully constructed reality. She came back, too? Impossible. She collapsed, and I later saw her with Ryan Scott, the man she died with. Rage confirmed my initial suspicions.
But then, she found me, telling a story of an entity, a parasite, that controlled her in our past life, leading to the crash. And then, she collapsed again, sick. I finally learned the truth: Glioblastoma. My cancer, from my old life. She had taken my fate.
This wasn't just a second chance, but a cosmic correction. And now, reborn again, I stood before her in high school. "Hi," I said, my voice filled with a love that had crossed lifetimes. "I'm Ethan Lester. It's nice to meet you. For the first time. Again." Too Late For Regret: He Lost His Unstoppable Engineer
Short stories Ava Miller, a fresh-faced civil engineering graduate, yearned to prove herself at her father' s esteemed construction firm, not just as "Colonel Miller's daughter."
Then came the lottery: a grueling federal rebuilding project in hurricane-ravaged Louisiana, managed by the notoriously ruthless Marcus Thorne. Everyone, including ex-boyfriend Liam Peterson, assumed her father's influence would shield her. But the name pulled from the army helmet was hers: Ava Miller.
Liam, utterly shaken, begged her to refuse, his horror betraying his casual dismissals – he' d believed her selection was "just for show." His sweet-faced cousin, Chloe Vance, whose insidious whispers already chipped at Ava' s reputation back home, seemed to revel. The Louisiana camp was a stark, muddy nightmare, and Thorne swiftly shredded her meticulously crafted academic plans as worthless "ivory tower" ideas.
How could those she trusted so fundamentally underestimate her? Was she doomed to forever be just "Colonel Miller's Daughter," unworthy of a real test? And Liam, why had he so easily believed Chloe' s venomous lies? The sting of Thorne's dismissal, coupled with Liam' s casual betrayal, didn't break her-it ignited a furious resolve.
Instead of breaking, Ava snapped. She wouldn't just survive this brutal assignment; she would master it. She would prove them all profoundly wrong, starting with the Louisiana mud beneath her boots, forging academic theories into hard-won, real-world triumphs. His Panic, Her Priority
Short stories I arrived at City Hall, crisp suit and all, ready to finally get our marriage license after eight years.
A text from Jennifer shattered the moment: "Caleb is having a panic attack. Can we do this another day?"
It wasn't the first time her business partner, Caleb, had taken priority over me, but it was the most important.
Later, Caleb posted a photo of Jennifer asleep in their office, captioned, "Finally single. Now I can be there for you without any complications."
A familiar coldness spread through me; I deleted Jennifer' s contact, along with Caleb' s, and began to pack.
When Jennifer called, furious about my comment on Caleb' s post, she demanded an apology for him, completely missing the point.
Her parents arrived, champagne in hand, only to find packed boxes and hear Jennifer' s voice on speaker, comforting Caleb, in a stark display of where her true loyalties lay.
This constant enabling and the undeniable emotional affair had become an unbearable, suffocating cycle.
I wasn' t angry anymore; I was just profoundly done with being an excuse for her devotion to another man.
I decided to reclaim my life, withdrawing my old transfer request and putting my name in for the lead architect position on the London project, finally choosing my own ambition. The Price of a Perfect Angel
Short stories The cold steel of a knife slid between my ribs, and the last thing I remember was the shock on my best friend Wendy' s face – not that I was dying, but that she needed the perfect angle for her livestream.
She narrated my demise, blaming me for trying to sleep with a trucker, her voice sickly excited as notifications pinged with hateful comments like "Serves her right" and "Stupid slut."
I died on the dirty floor of a truck cabin, my blood pooling around me, smeared as a whore, utterly betrayed by the person I trusted most.
My last breath was a gasp of disbelief, wondering how I could have been so blind to her jealousy and malice.
Then, I gasped again, only this time the air was clean, not thick with diesel and blood, and I was back in my law firm's breakroom, staring at a saccharine-smiling Wendy, who was about to propose the very trip that led to my murder. The Senator's Daughter: A Quiet Rebellion
Short stories I woke to my mother' s voice, sharp with familiar anxiety, planning my twin sister Gabrielle' s future, a future she always expected to be hers. My phone confirmed an impossible truth: I was back. Back to the exact day it all went wrong.
In my last life, this morning conversation led to a fight, my mother' s slap, and then a mysterious car crash that left me a ghost in a coma for years. While I lay dying, Gabrielle lived my life, taking my fellowship, marrying my intended, and becoming Congresswoman Johns.
But this time, I wouldn't scream. I wouldn't beg for their love. Their casual betrayal, planning to steal my future right in front of me, solidified a cold resolve.
Why did fate bring me back, only to relive this agonizing betrayal from my own family? What power could I possibly have against their ruthless ambition?
I wouldn't let them steal my life again. The game had just begun, and this time, I was ready to play. Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: The Doctor's Verdict
Short stories It was our eighth wedding anniversary, and nine hundred and ninety-nine imported orchids, courtesy of my husband Ethan, filled the ER breakroom, a suffocating monument to his wealth and our utterly hollow marriage. My name is Sarah, an ER doctor, and just a month ago, I lost our baby – our second child – alone, terrified in the hospital. That night, Ethan was at a "critical work dinner" with his assistant, Chloe, claiming he couldn't leave my side. His grand gesture of impersonal flowers was a chilling reminder of how little he truly cared, or how little he bothered to know me anymore.
When I finally called, his voice was impatient; he dismissed my desperate plea to talk, sighing about my work stress before hanging up. Later, at our cold, modern penthouse, he offered an expensive diamond necklace, likely chosen by Chloe, ignoring my quiet but firm demand for a divorce. He scoffed, calling me "dramatic," bragging about the "best" orchids. Worse, his family, led by his domineering mother Eleanor and always-present Chloe, began using our son, Leo, as leverage, subtly painting me as emotionally unstable.
Why was the man who once gave me a single, dollar-pink carnation, a symbol of genuine, selfless love, now so utterly incapable of seeing me at all? How could he respond to the agonizing loss of our child with a callous remark about me being "stretched thin with my career?" His profound indifference, coupled with his family' s insidious manipulation, transformed my deep grief into a cold, unwavering fury.
After years of swallowing my anger and enduring their polished cruelty, I finally reached my breaking point at their opulent Connecticut estate. I was done being ignored, done being dismissed. It was time to shatter their perfect, miserable charade and reclaim every piece of my life. My Wife, The Butcher
Short stories I knelt on one knee, velvet box in hand, ready to propose to the woman I loved, a rising star in the theater world.
But instead of a yes, her cold voice cut through the silence: "I'm in love with someone else."
Instantly, her aunt, Nicole Johns, stepped from the wings, claiming she'd harbored a crush on me for years, and married me within a month.
Five years later, severely burned in a pyrotechnics "accident," I overheard Nicole, my wife, discussing my fate with the doctor.
She ordered my healthy skin be given to her lover, the very man my ex-fiancée left me for, Matthew Blakely, for a cosmetic procedure.
"For Ethan," she hissed, "use the experimental synthetic skin. It's cheaper."
Then, unbelievably, she tried to have me sterilized while I was unconscious, revealing she'd aborted our children because they were an "inconvenient" distraction from her affair with Matthew.
The "accident" and their fabricated story of my jealousy were all a setup.
I later learned the deepest horror: she had staged Matthew's "attack" to steal my kidney, which he openly gloated about right after receiving it.
They had a secret, sinister plan for my body.
My world shattered beyond repair.
I finally called my family' s ranch in Texas, ready to fight for my life. The Wedding He Lost
Short stories For eight years, I played the perfect high-society fiancée to Andrew Lester, a man consumed by guilt, whose emotional distance masked a disturbing fixation on his "niece," Molly. I silently endured his self-imposed celibacy, convinced his aloofness was just his penance.
But weeks before our wedding, I found a positive pregnancy test in our bathroom trash. It wasn't mine. Hours later, the man who hadn't touched me in years stormed into my bedroom and his hands closed around my throat. "Where is she?" he whispered, desperate, then chillingly revealed, "She's pregnant, Jennifer. With my child."
My heart didn't break; it turned to ice as he choked me while begging for the girl carrying his baby. Then, the ultimate betrayal: thrown into our freezing pool by his guards, I watched him comfort Molly, heard him call me a "shield," right before a sharp, agonizing pain erupted. I looked down to see a dark plume of blood in the water. I was losing my baby.
I woke in a bare guest room, branded "dramatic" for bleeding out in his pool. Later, Molly, with a smirk, told me she' d removed my roses for her fake allergies and that Andrew only married me "for show." Moments later, she faked a fall into the pool, shrieking about her baby, and Andrew, without hesitation, slapped me across the face, utterly blind to her deception.
The sting on my cheek, the taste of blood in my mouth, and his complete devotion to her lie finally shattered my last illusion. He had made his choice. Now, I would make mine. Fifteen Years: His Turn To Play
Short stories The sleek leather of my 50th-floor office chair felt real, the hum of the AC familiar. I was Andrew Scott, Wall Street rising star, not ex-con '734'.
Then, the intercom buzzed. My assistant, voice tight with panic: "Mr. Scott, it's Ryan Clark...about Jenny...an accident."
A physical blow. The exact same words. Fifteen years in a concrete box, the taste of stale bread, followed by the blinding Hamptons sun, Jenny-my dead wife-laughing with Ryan, their son looking exactly like him. The final memory: a dark New Jersey alley, the smell of garbage and my own blood. It wasn't a nightmare; it was my life, and it ended.
But I wasn't dead.
My heart pounded, not with fear for the woman I loved and our unborn child as it had before, but with a cold, hard rage. They had played their game, and I had lost everything.
Now, it was my turn. And this time, I knew all their moves. Stolen Scripts, Shattered Life
Short stories My film career was soaring, my dreams finally within reach.
Then, the word "Plagiarist!" echoed through the festival hall, a death knell for everything I' d built.
Industry contacts vanished, my name became a hashtag for fraud, and my working-class parents, who' d sacrificed everything, disowned me.
Just as I contemplated tearing up my life, producer Ethan Scott appeared, a charismatic savior who saw through the lies, stood by me, and whisked me away to a secluded Austin home.
He built me a private editing suite, framed my old scripts, and became my biggest fan, my only audience, convincing me the outside world was too dangerous.
For five years, I was safe, loved, and completely isolated-until tonight.
Scrolling Instagram, I saw a Sundance hit, "Dust Devil Heart," hailed as a masterpiece by Sabrina Lawrence.
Its story was identical to the script I' d just finished, the one I' d read aloud to Ethan.
And there, in the background of Sabrina's celebratory photo, was my husband, his arm possessively around her, a look of adoration I hadn't seen in years etched on his face.
My "savior" was at Sundance, not in L.A., and everything I believed about my perfect, safe life shattered into a million pieces.
I had married the man who orchestrated my downfall and stole my art, turning my life into his "content farm."
But he underestimated me.
He broke my spirit once, but this time, he just ignited a fire. Played For A Fool? Not Me.
Short stories The spilled champagne soaked the carpet, and Tara Lawrence's voice cut through the lounge like a knife.
"On your knees. Clean it up with a napkin, you little bitch."
I stood my ground, my tray balanced perfectly.
I refused, knowing it meant losing my job.
To my shock, Caleb Scott, the casino empire' s heir, didn't fire me.
Instead, he summoned me to a penthouse with a bizarre proposition: "Be my girlfriend."
It made no sense. Why would a man like him want a cocktail waitress, especially after I publicly defied his friend?
My suspicions were confirmed when I overheard Tara: Caleb's offer was a cruel bet.
They planned to shower me with luxury for a year, make me fall in love, then dump me, leaving me utterly broken, ensured I could never reclaim my old life.
They laughed about me throwing myself off a bridge when it was over.
My blood ran cold, but a fierce resolve ignited within me.
They thought they were playing me, but I saw it differently.
This wasn't just a game; it was war, and I was going to play to win.
They saw a low-class waitress; I saw my first investors.
They were funding my launch. 
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