His Ex, My Hell

His Ex, My Hell

Gavin

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For five years, I was Mrs. Davenport, cleaning up after my husband's one-night stands and enduring his casual cruelty. Call it a gilded cage, but this mansion was my prison, bought by my sacrifice: I was the secret medical lifeline keeping him, Ethan Davenport, alive. Our cruel contract was nearing its end, just three months left. Then, Chloe, his perfect ex-girlfriend, waltzed back in. Her arrival wasn't a gentle reunion; it was a wrecking ball designed to finish what Ethan's neglect had started. She smeared my name, orchestrated a public humiliation, and then watched, smiling, as Ethan, fueled by rage and alcohol, dragged me to a damp, cold cellar. He tore apart my most sacred possession-my fiancé's diary-then brutally killed my loyal dog, Buddy, right before my eyes. As I bled, collapsing into unconsciousness, I heard his ex's venomous whisper: she'd had all my precious memories of him incinerated. They had taken everything. My dignity, my love, my last connection to a life I cherished. My heart was a hollowed-out space, suffocating under a mountain of grief and betrayal. How could a human being be so cruel, so blind, to the sacrifices I'd made to keep him alive? But on the day our notorious contract officially expired, I walked out. With nothing but the clothes on my back and a one-way ticket to a remote Pacific Northwest retreat, I finally chose myself. It was time to disappear, to burn away the past, and somehow, exist again.

Introduction

For five years, I was Mrs. Davenport, cleaning up after my husband's one-night stands and enduring his casual cruelty.

Call it a gilded cage, but this mansion was my prison, bought by my sacrifice: I was the secret medical lifeline keeping him, Ethan Davenport, alive.

Our cruel contract was nearing its end, just three months left.

Then, Chloe, his perfect ex-girlfriend, waltzed back in.

Her arrival wasn't a gentle reunion; it was a wrecking ball designed to finish what Ethan's neglect had started.

She smeared my name, orchestrated a public humiliation, and then watched, smiling, as Ethan, fueled by rage and alcohol, dragged me to a damp, cold cellar.

He tore apart my most sacred possession-my fiancé's diary-then brutally killed my loyal dog, Buddy, right before my eyes.

As I bled, collapsing into unconsciousness, I heard his ex's venomous whisper: she'd had all my precious memories of him incinerated.

They had taken everything.

My dignity, my love, my last connection to a life I cherished.

My heart was a hollowed-out space, suffocating under a mountain of grief and betrayal.

How could a human being be so cruel, so blind, to the sacrifices I'd made to keep him alive?

But on the day our notorious contract officially expired, I walked out.

With nothing but the clothes on my back and a one-way ticket to a remote Pacific Northwest retreat, I finally chose myself.

It was time to disappear, to burn away the past, and somehow, exist again.

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I sold my cameras and lenses—everything that defined me—to buy the first servers for my husband’s startup. Fifteen years later, on my birthday, Dustin left me alone to celebrate with his new assistant, Jami. When I confronted him about the affair, he didn't apologize. He threw a fifty-thousand-dollar check at me and told me to buy something pretty. But the betrayal didn't stop there. Jami broke into our safe and stole my late mother's vintage sapphire ring. When I tried to take it back, she snapped the eighty-year-old gold band in half. I slapped her. In response, my husband shoved me hard. My head cracked against the solid oak nightstand. Blood poured down my face, staining the rug I had picked out. Dustin didn't call an ambulance. He didn't even check my pulse. He stepped over my bleeding body to comfort his mistress because she was "stressed." When his parents found out, they didn't care about my injury. They came to where I was hiding, accused me of being clumsy, and threatened to leave me with nothing if I ruined the family image. They forgot one crucial detail: I was the one who designed, coded, and installed the penthouse's smart security system. I had synced every camera to my private cloud before I walked out. I had the video of him assaulting me. I had the audio of him admitting to fraud. And I had my father on speed dial—the man who owned the bank holding all of Dustin's loans. I looked at his terrified parents and pulled up the footage on the TV. "I don't want your money," I said, my finger hovering over the 'Send' button to the District Attorney. "I want to watch him burn."

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