On Her Wedding Day, His Death Began

On Her Wedding Day, His Death Began

Gavin

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I was Ethan Miller, a boy from a trailer park, who married into the impossibly wealthy Vanderbilt family. My life with Vicky was a gilded cage – opulent, yes, but undeniably a prison. My stutter, a constant echo of my humble beginnings, always made me feel like an outsider in her world. But nothing prepared me for the day Vicky believed I'd abducted her 'lover,' Julian Astor. Her voice, usually just sharp, turned venomous. She threatened to destroy my only family, my beloved grandparents, if I didn't produce him. And then, I watched, live on a screen, as a bulldozer tore apart their cherished farm. My frail grandmother collapsed. Vicky laughed, blaming me for every single splinter. From then on, I was a ghost in her mansion, silently enduring her escalating cruelty. She publicly humiliated me with leaked, shameful photos of my past. She had me doused with garbage at a lavish party. She framed me for poisoning Julian, then forced me to drain my own blood to save him. Finally, she threw me into a decrepit, cockroach-infested basement, filled with the rancid smell of my deepest traumas. How could love morph into such a grotesque instrument of torture? Was this her way of molding me, or just pure sadism? With nothing left to lose, only one desperate thought remained: freedom, at any cost. As Vicky married Julian, live-streamed directly to my dark prison, I swallowed an experimental drug. I hoped for a final, peaceful escape. But my 'death' was just the beginning of her utter ruin.

Introduction

I was Ethan Miller, a boy from a trailer park, who married into the impossibly wealthy Vanderbilt family.

My life with Vicky was a gilded cage – opulent, yes, but undeniably a prison.

My stutter, a constant echo of my humble beginnings, always made me feel like an outsider in her world.

But nothing prepared me for the day Vicky believed I'd abducted her 'lover,' Julian Astor.

Her voice, usually just sharp, turned venomous.

She threatened to destroy my only family, my beloved grandparents, if I didn't produce him.

And then, I watched, live on a screen, as a bulldozer tore apart their cherished farm.

My frail grandmother collapsed.

Vicky laughed, blaming me for every single splinter.

From then on, I was a ghost in her mansion, silently enduring her escalating cruelty.

She publicly humiliated me with leaked, shameful photos of my past.

She had me doused with garbage at a lavish party.

She framed me for poisoning Julian, then forced me to drain my own blood to save him.

Finally, she threw me into a decrepit, cockroach-infested basement, filled with the rancid smell of my deepest traumas.

How could love morph into such a grotesque instrument of torture?

Was this her way of molding me, or just pure sadism?

With nothing left to lose, only one desperate thought remained: freedom, at any cost.

As Vicky married Julian, live-streamed directly to my dark prison, I swallowed an experimental drug.

I hoped for a final, peaceful escape.

But my 'death' was just the beginning of her utter ruin.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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