Auctioning Ava: A Billion-Dollar Betrayal

Auctioning Ava: A Billion-Dollar Betrayal

Gavin

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My husband, Ethan, the charming CEO of Hayes Innovations, and I were the picture-perfect couple at our anniversary gala. I wanted a sapphire necklace for our milestone, a glimmer of hope for my struggling family art gallery. But then Chloe Vance, Ethan's young intern who always seemed to be by his side, started bidding against me, encouraged by his subtle chuckles. The room watched as I spent five million dollars to win, a public humiliation masked as a playful game. Months later, my family's legacy was systematically crumbling, financial ruin orchestrated with surgical precision. Ethan just offered platitudes, his eyes holding that same unreadable amusement. Then came the clandestine auction notice, a venue filled with predatory energy. There, on a stage, stood Ethan and Chloe, beaming. A massive screen flickered to life, displaying my most intimate moments – 365 private photos and videos Ethan had taken throughout our marriage. "My beautiful Ava," he used to say. Now, my entire life was a public spectacle, being auctioned off for their amusement. I used every last dime of my emergency fund, then liquidated all my personal assets, even old family jewelry. But it wasn't enough. With the crowd's cruel laughter echoing, the auctioneer declared my funds officially depleted. Chloe, my husband's protégé, then offered to pay the next bid, her sweet concern dripping with poison. The abyss opened beneath me. How could he, the man who vowed to cherish me, orchestrate such a public, cruel destruction? Why was this intern, always by his side, so eager to participate in this calculated torment? Was this his twisted revenge for a simple public slight, or something far deeper, a monster hidden beneath a charming facade? I walked away from the jeering crowd, not to hide, but to make a single, desperate call: "Code Nightingale. I need The Circle. Now."

Introduction

My husband, Ethan, the charming CEO of Hayes Innovations, and I were the picture-perfect couple at our anniversary gala.

I wanted a sapphire necklace for our milestone, a glimmer of hope for my struggling family art gallery.

But then Chloe Vance, Ethan's young intern who always seemed to be by his side, started bidding against me, encouraged by his subtle chuckles.

The room watched as I spent five million dollars to win, a public humiliation masked as a playful game.

Months later, my family's legacy was systematically crumbling, financial ruin orchestrated with surgical precision.

Ethan just offered platitudes, his eyes holding that same unreadable amusement.

Then came the clandestine auction notice, a venue filled with predatory energy.

There, on a stage, stood Ethan and Chloe, beaming.

A massive screen flickered to life, displaying my most intimate moments – 365 private photos and videos Ethan had taken throughout our marriage.

"My beautiful Ava," he used to say.

Now, my entire life was a public spectacle, being auctioned off for their amusement.

I used every last dime of my emergency fund, then liquidated all my personal assets, even old family jewelry.

But it wasn't enough.

With the crowd's cruel laughter echoing, the auctioneer declared my funds officially depleted.

Chloe, my husband's protégé, then offered to pay the next bid, her sweet concern dripping with poison.

The abyss opened beneath me.

How could he, the man who vowed to cherish me, orchestrate such a public, cruel destruction?

Why was this intern, always by his side, so eager to participate in this calculated torment?

Was this his twisted revenge for a simple public slight, or something far deeper, a monster hidden beneath a charming facade?

I walked away from the jeering crowd, not to hide, but to make a single, desperate call: "Code Nightingale. I need The Circle. Now."

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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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