Love's Toxic Echo

Love's Toxic Echo

Gavin

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I woke in a hospital bed, my head throbbing, a void where seven years of my life should be. Doctors explained it was retrograde amnesia, specifically targeting emotional connections. My best friend, Liam, looked devastated when I asked, "Cassie? Who's Cassie?" Apparently, she was everything to me for seven long years, a love so deep it was almost painful. Yet, when I finally encountered this forgotten love, Cassie Vanderbilt, she was shockingly cold. She showed no concern for my accident, only annoyance, casting me aside for her ex-fiancé, Damian Pierce. Her dismissive eyes and cutting words instantly confirmed her indifference, echoing the tales of unrequited devotion from a private blog I found. She publicly validated Damian over me, humiliated me at a party, and even threw coffee in my face. When a fire erupted, she inexplicably chose to save Damian, leaving me to the flames. And later, when Damian brazenly stole my revolutionary tech project, AuraConnect, she stood by him, publicly discrediting me. Each fresh injury, inflicted by a woman I no longer remembered, compounded my confusion and pain. How could I have so desperately loved someone utterly devoid of compassion, even for a victim of severe memory loss? The weight of her constant betrayals, for a past I couldn't access, was a sickening burden. This constant cycle of humiliation left me bewildered, questioning the very essence of my forgotten self. I knew then: this forgotten past was toxic, and I would consciously choose to leave it behind. I fled Boston for Austin, embracing a clean slate and finding genuine happiness with Maya. But just as I started to build a new life, the darkness of my past, in the form of Damian and Cassie's schemes, roared back. They came for me, forcing a final, brutal confrontation that tore open old wounds and revealed a truth far more agonizing than I could have imagined.

Introduction

I woke in a hospital bed, my head throbbing, a void where seven years of my life should be.

Doctors explained it was retrograde amnesia, specifically targeting emotional connections.

My best friend, Liam, looked devastated when I asked, "Cassie? Who's Cassie?"

Apparently, she was everything to me for seven long years, a love so deep it was almost painful.

Yet, when I finally encountered this forgotten love, Cassie Vanderbilt, she was shockingly cold.

She showed no concern for my accident, only annoyance, casting me aside for her ex-fiancé, Damian Pierce.

Her dismissive eyes and cutting words instantly confirmed her indifference, echoing the tales of unrequited devotion from a private blog I found.

She publicly validated Damian over me, humiliated me at a party, and even threw coffee in my face.

When a fire erupted, she inexplicably chose to save Damian, leaving me to the flames.

And later, when Damian brazenly stole my revolutionary tech project, AuraConnect, she stood by him, publicly discrediting me.

Each fresh injury, inflicted by a woman I no longer remembered, compounded my confusion and pain.

How could I have so desperately loved someone utterly devoid of compassion, even for a victim of severe memory loss?

The weight of her constant betrayals, for a past I couldn't access, was a sickening burden.

This constant cycle of humiliation left me bewildered, questioning the very essence of my forgotten self.

I knew then: this forgotten past was toxic, and I would consciously choose to leave it behind.

I fled Boston for Austin, embracing a clean slate and finding genuine happiness with Maya.

But just as I started to build a new life, the darkness of my past, in the form of Damian and Cassie's schemes, roared back.

They came for me, forcing a final, brutal confrontation that tore open old wounds and revealed a truth far more agonizing than I could have imagined.

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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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