The Unwanted Husband's Revenge

The Unwanted Husband's Revenge

Mattie Valelly

5.0
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My wife, Sarah, always craved something louder, something more, unlike my quiet integrity. She'd called me to a Boston steakhouse, claiming a critical deal for her family's company, Ross & Sons. But the meeting quickly devolved into a predatory ambush, led by the infamous corporate raider, Vic Sterling. When I pointed out the deal's fatal flaws, Mark Jenkins, Sarah's COO, called her, and her voice, impatient and dismissive, echoed through the phone: "Alex, just stop creating problems. Let the professionals handle it. Don't ruin this for us." Sterling, appearing like a predator, then openly mocked me, calling me "the anchor" and a "relic" while Davies, his accomplice, snickered. The ultimate betrayal came when Sarah herself walked in, ignoring my warnings, and with a star-struck smile, publicly announced, "Our marriage... it's run its course. I'm choosing a future with Vic. Professionally, and personally." They snickered and pushed divorce papers towards me, ready to discard me and our shared legacy like yesterday's trash. The humiliation burned, a bitter taste, as they mistook my quiet nature for weakness, and my principled stand for a lack of ambition. They boasted of their boundless power, completely unaware of the true, silent influence I possessed, built on generations of uncompromising integrity. My patience had reached its limit. With a calm hand, I signed the divorce papers, then reached for my phone, meticulously dialing a number that would shatter their carefully constructed illusion of invincibility.

Introduction

My wife, Sarah, always craved something louder, something more, unlike my quiet integrity.

She'd called me to a Boston steakhouse, claiming a critical deal for her family's company, Ross & Sons.

But the meeting quickly devolved into a predatory ambush, led by the infamous corporate raider, Vic Sterling.

When I pointed out the deal's fatal flaws, Mark Jenkins, Sarah's COO, called her, and her voice, impatient and dismissive, echoed through the phone: "Alex, just stop creating problems.

Let the professionals handle it. Don't ruin this for us."

Sterling, appearing like a predator, then openly mocked me, calling me "the anchor" and a "relic" while Davies, his accomplice, snickered.

The ultimate betrayal came when Sarah herself walked in, ignoring my warnings, and with a star-struck smile, publicly announced, "Our marriage... it's run its course.

I'm choosing a future with Vic. Professionally, and personally."

They snickered and pushed divorce papers towards me, ready to discard me and our shared legacy like yesterday's trash.

The humiliation burned, a bitter taste, as they mistook my quiet nature for weakness, and my principled stand for a lack of ambition.

They boasted of their boundless power, completely unaware of the true, silent influence I possessed, built on generations of uncompromising integrity.

My patience had reached its limit.

With a calm hand, I signed the divorce papers, then reached for my phone, meticulously dialing a number that would shatter their carefully constructed illusion of invincibility.

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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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