Watching My Family Burn

Watching My Family Burn

Shi Liu

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I woke up floating. Not in a dream, but tethered to a nightmare. My body lay cold on the bed, while my son, Leo, whispered, "Papa won't wake up." My wife, Eleanor, stood by the door, her face a mask of ice. I was a ghost, able to watch, but powerless to intervene. Then Julian Croft appeared, oozing charm and false sympathy. The man who'd received my liver, the root of my demise. Eleanor dismissed Leo's desperate pleas, accusing *me* of manipulation, of using our son. She chose Julian, leaving Leo behind, a small, trembling figure in our empty home. What followed was agony. I watched my seven-year-old journey miles to her office, only to be publicly humiliated, framed by Julian, and then viciously beaten. Eleanor, blind to the truth, abandoned him again, leaving him bruised and alone in a dark alley. My spirit seethed, consumed by a cold, useless rage. How could she believe such lies? How could she discard her own child so easily? The injustice was unbearable. I was murdered, my son brutalized, and the woman I loved stood by my killer. I longed to warn her, to protect Leo, but I was just air. A silent scream. Then Julian delivered the final blow: my little boy was tossed into the freezing Hudson River. But as Leo's small form sank into the darkness, a desperate hope ignited. A stranger, an angel, pulled him from the depths. My death was real, my son's suffering unbearable. And now, the true battle for justice, and for Leo's future, was about to begin.

Introduction

I woke up floating.

Not in a dream, but tethered to a nightmare.

My body lay cold on the bed, while my son, Leo, whispered, "Papa won't wake up."

My wife, Eleanor, stood by the door, her face a mask of ice. I was a ghost, able to watch, but powerless to intervene.

Then Julian Croft appeared, oozing charm and false sympathy. The man who'd received my liver, the root of my demise.

Eleanor dismissed Leo's desperate pleas, accusing *me* of manipulation, of using our son. She chose Julian, leaving Leo behind, a small, trembling figure in our empty home.

What followed was agony. I watched my seven-year-old journey miles to her office, only to be publicly humiliated, framed by Julian, and then viciously beaten.

Eleanor, blind to the truth, abandoned him again, leaving him bruised and alone in a dark alley.

My spirit seethed, consumed by a cold, useless rage. How could she believe such lies? How could she discard her own child so easily?

The injustice was unbearable. I was murdered, my son brutalized, and the woman I loved stood by my killer. I longed to warn her, to protect Leo, but I was just air. A silent scream.

Then Julian delivered the final blow: my little boy was tossed into the freezing Hudson River.

But as Leo's small form sank into the darkness, a desperate hope ignited. A stranger, an angel, pulled him from the depths.

My death was real, my son's suffering unbearable. And now, the true battle for justice, and for Leo's future, was about to begin.

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The Billionaire's Perfect, Plastic Wife

The Billionaire's Perfect, Plastic Wife

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For five years, I played the part of the perfect wife to Knox Steele, heir to a media empire. My life was a curated masterpiece, a reward for surviving the car accident his stepsister, Gemma, caused-an accident that was meant to kill me. At a charity gala, I saw her. Gemma, supposed to be locked away in rehab, was glowing. She was holding the hand of a small boy. And next to her, laughing as the boy tugged on his jacket, was my husband. Hiding in the shadows, I heard the boy call Knox "Daddy." I heard them planning his birthday party for the next day at our lake house-a "family-only" trip I was, as always, excluded from. Then I heard Gemma' s voice, laced with poison. "What about Adelaide? Will she be a problem?" "Don't worry about her," Knox said, his tone dismissive. "I'll tell her it's a business retreat. She'll stay home like a good little wife. Poor thing." My entire five-year marriage was a performance. A carefully constructed cage to keep me quiet while they lived their real life right under my nose. I wasn't family. I was the cover story. But the final betrayal was discovering their plan to drug my morning coffee, to keep me sedated and "unwell" so I wouldn't interfere with their celebration. They weren't just lying to me; they were going to incapacitate me. That's when the woman he married died. I signed the divorce papers, walking away from billions. I wanted nothing from them but their ruin. And as I watched them cut the birthday cake at the lake house, I smiled. My gift was on its way.

Replaced: A Husband's Revenge

Replaced: A Husband's Revenge

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"Mr. Phantom, are you sure you want to enter the national street art competition?" the voice on the phone asked, echoing in my lavish penthouse. I, Ethan Hayes, the true Phantom, stared at my reflection, the city lights blurring like the last ten years of my life. I was back.\n\nThe memories hit me-the alley, the sickening crunch of bone, the mangled hands. Olivia, my wife, her eyes cold, furious, saying, "This competition can only be won by 'Phantom'! Anyone who threatens him will be eliminated, and that includes you!" She thought Mark Jensen, my ambitious assistant, was Phantom, my savior. She bought him this penthouse. My art saved her from suicide, but she mistook my pain for jealousy, then had my hands broken when I tried to reclaim my identity.\n\nAt the charity auction, she introduced Mark as Phantom, spending millions on his "art." When my own painting, "Three Days"-a raw depiction of my torture during kidnapping-came up, I desperately bid for it. But she outbid me, buying it for Mark, whispering, "This painting belongs to a true artist. It belongs with Mark."\n\nLater, she orchestrated a horrifying re-enactment of my kidnapping, breaking my hands again for Mark's "inspiration." My own wife. She then forced me to sign a contract in the hospital, giving up my identity as Phantom and agreeing to a divorce, all to save my hands. I signed, but not before telling her, "After this, we are nothing. You are not my wife. I am not your husband. We will be strangers."\n\nI was worthless to her, an embarrassing attachment. But I was Ethan Hayes, the true Phantom, and I wouldn't be destroyed again. I left, starting fresh in a new city, fueled by a promise: the world would see the real Phantom's work, and my revenge would be swift and quiet.

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Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

SHANA GRAY
4.3

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

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