The Hundred-Point Divorce

The Hundred-Point Divorce

Gavin

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My heart hammered. My Moleskine, my "Strike List," lay open on Ethan's desk. Every betrayal, every point deducted from our marriage. One hundred points, and I'd be free. He'd already reached ninety-five. Then came the fire, raging through his ex, Olivia's, restaurant. Ethan, my husband, became a frantic hero for her, oblivious to my presence, my pain. I was just background noise in his obsession. But the true horror emerged months later. Pregnant and hemorrhaging in the ER, fighting for my life, I needed an O-negative blood transfusion. The doctor's voice was grim: "Your husband has reserved our entire O-negative supply for a Ms. Olivia Vance-for her minor cosmetic procedure." Over speakerphone, I heard Ethan's cold, impatient reply: "Olivia's needs are paramount. That blood is for her. My wife will have to wait." Our baby, our future, became collateral damage for his obsession. He chose her appearance over our child's life. How could the man who swore to cherish me, who claimed to fulfill my dying father's wish, be capable of such monstrous indifference? Was I really just a convenient placeholder, waiting for his 'true love' to become available? The pain was a hollow echo now, not sharp, but vast and empty. The score was final. One hundred points. My hand, trembling but resolute, reached for the divorce papers. I packed my life into boxes, leaving behind a marriage that was never really mine, and booked a one-way flight to Austin. This was not the end; it was the ferocious, unyielding beginning of my own story.

Introduction

My heart hammered. My Moleskine, my "Strike List," lay open on Ethan's desk. Every betrayal, every point deducted from our marriage. One hundred points, and I'd be free. He'd already reached ninety-five.

Then came the fire, raging through his ex, Olivia's, restaurant. Ethan, my husband, became a frantic hero for her, oblivious to my presence, my pain. I was just background noise in his obsession. But the true horror emerged months later. Pregnant and hemorrhaging in the ER, fighting for my life, I needed an O-negative blood transfusion.

The doctor's voice was grim: "Your husband has reserved our entire O-negative supply for a Ms. Olivia Vance-for her minor cosmetic procedure." Over speakerphone, I heard Ethan's cold, impatient reply: "Olivia's needs are paramount. That blood is for her. My wife will have to wait." Our baby, our future, became collateral damage for his obsession. He chose her appearance over our child's life.

How could the man who swore to cherish me, who claimed to fulfill my dying father's wish, be capable of such monstrous indifference? Was I really just a convenient placeholder, waiting for his 'true love' to become available? The pain was a hollow echo now, not sharp, but vast and empty.

The score was final. One hundred points. My hand, trembling but resolute, reached for the divorce papers. I packed my life into boxes, leaving behind a marriage that was never really mine, and booked a one-way flight to Austin. This was not the end; it was the ferocious, unyielding beginning of my own story.

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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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Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.

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