Weeks After the Funeral, My Wife Was Hers

Weeks After the Funeral, My Wife Was Hers

Gavin

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As a Chicago firefighter, my world was built on duty, courage, and the unwavering love for my wife, Clara, another hero on the force. Then the call came: a warehouse collapse, my sister-in-law Ava's unit, no survivors, and later, Clara's gear found near a burned body, presumed dead, annihilating my soul. But weeks later, reeling from grief, I stumbled upon a horrific truth: Clara, undeniably alive, was meticulously impersonating her deceased twin, living with Ava's husband, Mark, in a sickening charade. My world didn't just tilt; it shattered, as I watched my presumed-dead wife publicly embrace her new life, even carrying another man's baby, all while casting me as the unstable widower. Every interaction was a fresh wound: her choice to save Mark instead of me during my anaphylaxis, her vile accusation that I'd supplied Mark's overdose, and her constant, suffocating attempts to maintain control. I became a ghost haunting their stolen domestic bliss, an unwilling audience to the monstrous lie built on my shattered life. How could the woman who vowed 'til death do us part, betray me with such calculating cruelty, erasing our shared history to live as another woman's wife, with another man? The clean grief I once felt transformed into a venomous, all-consuming rage, a betrayal so profound it stole my sanity. Was every laugh, every tender moment, a lie? With every piece of my soul screaming for escape, I decided then: I would leave Chicago, abandoning the ashes of my old life to seek a new beginning, far away from this living hell disguised as a family.

Introduction

As a Chicago firefighter, my world was built on duty, courage, and the unwavering love for my wife, Clara, another hero on the force.

Then the call came: a warehouse collapse, my sister-in-law Ava's unit, no survivors, and later, Clara's gear found near a burned body, presumed dead, annihilating my soul.

But weeks later, reeling from grief, I stumbled upon a horrific truth: Clara, undeniably alive, was meticulously impersonating her deceased twin, living with Ava's husband, Mark, in a sickening charade.

My world didn't just tilt; it shattered, as I watched my presumed-dead wife publicly embrace her new life, even carrying another man's baby, all while casting me as the unstable widower.

Every interaction was a fresh wound: her choice to save Mark instead of me during my anaphylaxis, her vile accusation that I'd supplied Mark's overdose, and her constant, suffocating attempts to maintain control.

I became a ghost haunting their stolen domestic bliss, an unwilling audience to the monstrous lie built on my shattered life.

How could the woman who vowed 'til death do us part, betray me with such calculating cruelty, erasing our shared history to live as another woman's wife, with another man?

The clean grief I once felt transformed into a venomous, all-consuming rage, a betrayal so profound it stole my sanity.

Was every laugh, every tender moment, a lie?

With every piece of my soul screaming for escape, I decided then: I would leave Chicago, abandoning the ashes of my old life to seek a new beginning, far away from this living hell disguised as a family.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.5

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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