The Imposter's Game

The Imposter's Game

Gavin

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Saturday mornings were sacred, spent in my garage, polishing my cherished cherry red '69 Camaro. My wife, Emily, had just confirmed her performance check at Sam's Autoworks before our road trip. Life was good, almost perfect. Then the phone rang. Detective Rourke. My Camaro was involved in a fatal hit-and-run, he said. Impossible! It was supposed to be safely at Sam's. But according to the police, it never arrived. At the scene, my world crumbled. My beautiful muscle car was a twisted wreck. Three body bags lay on the asphalt, one terribly small. A furious crowd pointed at me, screaming accusations: I was the driver, laughing, making vile comments, fleeing the scene. Emily arrived, her face aghast as Rourke showed her video stills of 'me' at the wheel. "How could you?" she wailed, slapping me. I was condemned, a monster in the eyes of the world. My wife left me. My parents were targeted and killed in retaliation. I was beaten to death in prison, still grasping for answers, knowing I was innocent. How could such a perfect frame-up happen? What impossible force made me the culprit when I wasn't? Then I opened my eyes. It was Saturday again. My clock read 8:03 AM. I was back. This time, even when the car was stolen despite my precautions and the accident happened again, I wasn't helpless. With the memories of my nightmare life, and a deeper understanding of my car's unique security, I finally had a fighting chance to reveal the chilling truth behind the monster who stole my life.

Introduction

Saturday mornings were sacred, spent in my garage, polishing my cherished cherry red '69 Camaro.

My wife, Emily, had just confirmed her performance check at Sam's Autoworks before our road trip.

Life was good, almost perfect.

Then the phone rang.

Detective Rourke.

My Camaro was involved in a fatal hit-and-run, he said.

Impossible!

It was supposed to be safely at Sam's.

But according to the police, it never arrived.

At the scene, my world crumbled.

My beautiful muscle car was a twisted wreck.

Three body bags lay on the asphalt, one terribly small.

A furious crowd pointed at me, screaming accusations: I was the driver, laughing, making vile comments, fleeing the scene.

Emily arrived, her face aghast as Rourke showed her video stills of 'me' at the wheel.

"How could you?" she wailed, slapping me.

I was condemned, a monster in the eyes of the world.

My wife left me.

My parents were targeted and killed in retaliation.

I was beaten to death in prison, still grasping for answers, knowing I was innocent.

How could such a perfect frame-up happen?

What impossible force made me the culprit when I wasn't?

Then I opened my eyes.

It was Saturday again.

My clock read 8:03 AM.

I was back.

This time, even when the car was stolen despite my precautions and the accident happened again, I wasn't helpless.

With the memories of my nightmare life, and a deeper understanding of my car's unique security, I finally had a fighting chance to reveal the chilling truth behind the monster who stole 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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