Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: My Life Without You

Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: My Life Without You

Gavin

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My engagement party, the culmination of five years poured into Ethan Cartwright and our future, was supposed to be my fairy tale. But hiding on the terrace, his voice, cold and dismissive, echoed through the night: "Sarah? She's perfect. Adorably naive, utterly devoted. She won't rock the boat. Won't challenge me. And she certainly won't interfere with Isabelle." The words hit like stones, shattering my world and sending me tumbling into darkness. I woke up with amnesia, the doctor explaining recent memories were gone – Ethan's name meant nothing. But this man, a stranger, kept pushing me, forcing me into public appearances purely for his convenience. At his gala, his actual lover, Isabelle, deliberately pushed me down a grand staircase. I learned later that fall cost me a baby I never knew I carried – *his* baby. Yet, he showed zero concern. Instead, Ethan demanded I issue a public apology for "attacking" Isabelle, threatening to annul our engagement on grounds of mental instability and destroy my family's business if I refused. A man I couldn't even remember was trying to ruin my life, dismissing my pain and accusing me of deceit. The amnesia, meant as a curse, became my liberation. Looking into his empty eyes, I finally spoke, my voice steady: "This is the last thing I will ever do for you. Consider our ties severed." I walked away, leaving behind a life I could no longer remember, eager for a new beginning in Chicago with someone whose warmth offered a fragile promise – Noah Evans.

Introduction

My engagement party, the culmination of five years poured into Ethan Cartwright and our future, was supposed to be my fairy tale.

But hiding on the terrace, his voice, cold and dismissive, echoed through the night: "Sarah? She's perfect.

Adorably naive, utterly devoted.

She won't rock the boat.

Won't challenge me.

And she certainly won't interfere with Isabelle."

The words hit like stones, shattering my world and sending me tumbling into darkness.

I woke up with amnesia, the doctor explaining recent memories were gone – Ethan's name meant nothing.

But this man, a stranger, kept pushing me, forcing me into public appearances purely for his convenience.

At his gala, his actual lover, Isabelle, deliberately pushed me down a grand staircase.

I learned later that fall cost me a baby I never knew I carried – *his* baby.

Yet, he showed zero concern.

Instead, Ethan demanded I issue a public apology for "attacking" Isabelle, threatening to annul our engagement on grounds of mental instability and destroy my family's business if I refused.

A man I couldn't even remember was trying to ruin my life, dismissing my pain and accusing me of deceit.

The amnesia, meant as a curse, became my liberation.

Looking into his empty eyes, I finally spoke, my voice steady: "This is the last thing I will ever do for you.

Consider our ties severed."

I walked away, leaving behind a life I could no longer remember, eager for a new beginning in Chicago with someone whose warmth offered a fragile promise – Noah Evans.

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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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