He Proposed Again, I Introduced My Husband.

He Proposed Again, I Introduced My Husband.

Gavin

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The flashbulbs were blinding, the "Rising Critic" statuette heavy and cold in my grasp. Outside the hotel, amidst the swarm of photographers, a familiar figure pushed through and knelt before me. Jake Brown, my ex-fiancé, held open a velvet box, a diamond winking under the harsh lights. "Emily," he rasped, a sound I once knew intimately, "Marry me. Again." His family materialized behind him, beaming, a well-rehearsed chorus expecting my tears and a trembling, "Yes, oh, yes!" But they'd forgotten-or perhaps never knew-the full story of how he'd publicly accused me of sabotaging his signature dish. How he'd whispered lies to the restaurant owner, implying I pilfered expensive ingredients. How I was fired on the spot, my name dragged through the mud, my culinary dreams torched. His mother, Carol, tried to paint him as a suffering hero, claiming he'd spent a fortune clearing my name from the food poisoning incident. Yet, I remembered the real origins: the cheap, peanut-contaminated oil, the plagiarism he later framed me for. I remembered being left with a shattered wrist in a dark alley, as he walked away, abandoning me to a mob that *he* had stirred against me. His grand gesture now felt like the ultimate insult, dripping with manufactured sympathy-and unbearable blame. Three years had been long enough to heal, to rebuild, to find a love that didn't demand sacrifice, yet they had the audacity to stage this performance. How could they stand here, rewriting history, when *he* had ripped everything from me? My voice was even, devoid of the storm that once raged, as I held up my left hand. A simple, elegant gold band gleamed beside my engagement ring-Noah's ring. "Jake and I ended things three years ago," I stated, my eyes steady. "And for your information, I'm already married." The collective gasp and intensifying flashbulbs signaled that *my* story, the real one, was just beginning.

Introduction

The flashbulbs were blinding, the "Rising Critic" statuette heavy and cold in my grasp.

Outside the hotel, amidst the swarm of photographers, a familiar figure pushed through and knelt before me.

Jake Brown, my ex-fiancé, held open a velvet box, a diamond winking under the harsh lights.

"Emily," he rasped, a sound I once knew intimately, "Marry me. Again."

His family materialized behind him, beaming, a well-rehearsed chorus expecting my tears and a trembling, "Yes, oh, yes!"

But they'd forgotten-or perhaps never knew-the full story of how he'd publicly accused me of sabotaging his signature dish.

How he'd whispered lies to the restaurant owner, implying I pilfered expensive ingredients.

How I was fired on the spot, my name dragged through the mud, my culinary dreams torched.

His mother, Carol, tried to paint him as a suffering hero, claiming he'd spent a fortune clearing my name from the food poisoning incident.

Yet, I remembered the real origins: the cheap, peanut-contaminated oil, the plagiarism he later framed me for.

I remembered being left with a shattered wrist in a dark alley, as he walked away, abandoning me to a mob that *he* had stirred against me.

His grand gesture now felt like the ultimate insult, dripping with manufactured sympathy-and unbearable blame.

Three years had been long enough to heal, to rebuild, to find a love that didn't demand sacrifice, yet they had the audacity to stage this performance.

How could they stand here, rewriting history, when *he* had ripped everything from me?

My voice was even, devoid of the storm that once raged, as I held up my left hand.

A simple, elegant gold band gleamed beside my engagement ring-Noah's ring.

"Jake and I ended things three years ago," I stated, my eyes steady.

"And for your information, I'm already married."

The collective gasp and intensifying flashbulbs signaled that *my* story, the real one, was just beginning.

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When Love Turns to Ash

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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