Stolen Identity, True Revenge

Stolen Identity, True Revenge

Gavin

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Cold water hit my face, shocking me awake in the dingy back room of Oakhaven Eats. My son Leo stood over me, a dripping glass in his hand, his child's voice sharp with accusation. But I jolted awake with a searing memory: the Philadelphia alley in 2014, the freezing rain, Amelia's triumphant smile as I drew my last breath. Then, darkness-my death, nine years in the future. My mother-in-law, Carol Bishop, stormed in, her face a familiar mask of disapproval, instantly demanding my meager tips and shaming me for being a 'bum' compared to her 'hero firefighter' son Mark. The stench of stale grease and faded floral wallpaper confirmed this wasn't just a dream; it was indeed October 2005, a year after Mark's supposed heroic death. Every memory flooded back: raising Leo alone, enduring Carol's daily abuse and theft, and ultimately discovering Mark was alive, thriving in Philadelphia with Amelia, my adoptive sister. Amelia, the quiet girl I protected, who had systematically stolen my identity, my future, and even my heroic father's legacy. How could I be back? How could this elaborate deception, this cruel future I'd already survived and witnessed, now be my past? The echo of Amelia's taunts-"I took your SAT scores, your UPenn acceptance, even your father's story"-still stung with the force of betrayal. My own son, Leo, had disowned me in that alley, poisoned by their lies, abandoning me to my final moments. But in this inexplicable rebirth, the numbing despair I remembered was replaced by a burning fury, a cold, hard resolve. I was back, I was alive, and this time, the truth I knew would not be buried-it would be meticulously unearthed, weaponized. This time, they would pay for everything.

Introduction

Cold water hit my face, shocking me awake in the dingy back room of Oakhaven Eats.

My son Leo stood over me, a dripping glass in his hand, his child's voice sharp with accusation.

But I jolted awake with a searing memory: the Philadelphia alley in 2014, the freezing rain, Amelia's triumphant smile as I drew my last breath.

Then, darkness-my death, nine years in the future.

My mother-in-law, Carol Bishop, stormed in, her face a familiar mask of disapproval, instantly demanding my meager tips and shaming me for being a 'bum' compared to her 'hero firefighter' son Mark.

The stench of stale grease and faded floral wallpaper confirmed this wasn't just a dream; it was indeed October 2005, a year after Mark's supposed heroic death.

Every memory flooded back: raising Leo alone, enduring Carol's daily abuse and theft, and ultimately discovering Mark was alive, thriving in Philadelphia with Amelia, my adoptive sister.

Amelia, the quiet girl I protected, who had systematically stolen my identity, my future, and even my heroic father's legacy.

How could I be back?

How could this elaborate deception, this cruel future I'd already survived and witnessed, now be my past?

The echo of Amelia's taunts-"I took your SAT scores, your UPenn acceptance, even your father's story"-still stung with the force of betrayal.

My own son, Leo, had disowned me in that alley, poisoned by their lies, abandoning me to my final moments.

But in this inexplicable rebirth, the numbing despair I remembered was replaced by a burning fury, a cold, hard resolve.

I was back, I was alive, and this time, the truth I knew would not be buried-it would be meticulously unearthed, weaponized.

This time, they would pay for everything.

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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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