When My Car Became His Prize

When My Car Became His Prize

Gavin

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As a successful tech CEO, my custom-ordered Lucid Air Sapphire was finally ready after a year on the waitlist. It was my personal reward, a symbol of my hard-earned success, something truly mine. But then the dealership called, and my world tilted: my car had already been picked up. Not by me, but by Olivia, my COO and my girlfriend of seven years, who claimed it was a "company executive vehicle" for InnovateLife. Minutes later, her assistant, Liam, was grinning on Instagram, posing with *my* car, thanking Olivia for the "company ride." Olivia simply brushed it off, casually saying I had "so many cars" anyway, ignoring my feelings. But it wasn't just the car. Then I discovered Liam was not only driving my car but wearing my luxury undershirts and briefs, seemingly gifted by Olivia, who again trivialized my outrage. The ultimate, gut-wrenching blow came with a hidden blog, revealing Liam's four-year plot to manipulate Olivia and systematically undermine me, climaxing with a possessive photo of Olivia asleep on *his* couch, captioned "My queen." My world shattered. Was Olivia truly this blind, or had she, my girlfriend of seven years, knowingly allowed this calculated betrayal to unfold, calling Liam her "real partner" while giving away pieces of *my* life? The sickening realization hit me: this wasn't just betrayal; it was a carefully executed take-down from within my own home, orchestrated by the man she called her partner. I wouldn't wait to be dismantled. I resigned from InnovateLife, secured my interests, and decided to expose the truth. As her tear-streaked face pleaded with me at the airport, Liam's secret blog on my phone flashed her own damning words, finally shattering her denial and revealing the full extent of his manipulation. I walked away, leaving Austin and her behind, ready to reclaim my life.

Introduction

As a successful tech CEO, my custom-ordered Lucid Air Sapphire was finally ready after a year on the waitlist.

It was my personal reward, a symbol of my hard-earned success, something truly mine.

But then the dealership called, and my world tilted: my car had already been picked up.

Not by me, but by Olivia, my COO and my girlfriend of seven years, who claimed it was a "company executive vehicle" for InnovateLife.

Minutes later, her assistant, Liam, was grinning on Instagram, posing with *my* car, thanking Olivia for the "company ride."

Olivia simply brushed it off, casually saying I had "so many cars" anyway, ignoring my feelings.

But it wasn't just the car.

Then I discovered Liam was not only driving my car but wearing my luxury undershirts and briefs, seemingly gifted by Olivia, who again trivialized my outrage.

The ultimate, gut-wrenching blow came with a hidden blog, revealing Liam's four-year plot to manipulate Olivia and systematically undermine me, climaxing with a possessive photo of Olivia asleep on *his* couch, captioned "My queen."

My world shattered.

Was Olivia truly this blind, or had she, my girlfriend of seven years, knowingly allowed this calculated betrayal to unfold, calling Liam her "real partner" while giving away pieces of *my* life?

The sickening realization hit me: this wasn't just betrayal; it was a carefully executed take-down from within my own home, orchestrated by the man she called her partner.

I wouldn't wait to be dismantled.

I resigned from InnovateLife, secured my interests, and decided to expose the truth.

As her tear-streaked face pleaded with me at the airport, Liam's secret blog on my phone flashed her own damning words, finally shattering her denial and revealing the full extent of his manipulation.

I walked away, leaving Austin and her behind, ready to reclaim my life.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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