The Heiress Who Died Twice

The Heiress Who Died Twice

Gavin

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After two years in a secluded Swiss Alps "wellness retreat," I returned to my Hamptons home, ready to reclaim my life and legacy. But my lavish "welcome back" party quickly turned into a public spectacle of betrayal. My fiancé, Ethan, openly paraded Olivia Morgan, a manipulative substitute who'd copied my style then twisted it into a saccharine imitation. My half-brother, Leo, and stepmother, Catherine, plotted to seize our family's media empire. I was dismissed as "harsh" while Olivia played the innocent victim. Ethan, whom I'd once loved, hurled accusations. Then my cousin, Ellie, revealed the chilling truth: Olivia wasn't just mimicking me; she was following a discarded script Ellie had written – a story where the "sweet" rival replaced and killed the heiress. This wasn't just about betrayal; it was a deranged, literal plot for my life, orchestrated by those I trusted most. The sheer audacity of them trying to write my ending, to cast me out and then erase me completely, ignited a cold fury I never knew I possessed. They wanted me dead? Fine. I decided then and there that if they wanted to follow a script, *I* would write the new ending. And it would start with my very public, very convincing "death." This time, I'd pull the strings from the shadows, making sure everyone got exactly what they deserved.

Introduction

After two years in a secluded Swiss Alps "wellness retreat," I returned to my Hamptons home, ready to reclaim my life and legacy.

But my lavish "welcome back" party quickly turned into a public spectacle of betrayal. My fiancé, Ethan, openly paraded Olivia Morgan, a manipulative substitute who'd copied my style then twisted it into a saccharine imitation. My half-brother, Leo, and stepmother, Catherine, plotted to seize our family's media empire. I was dismissed as "harsh" while Olivia played the innocent victim. Ethan, whom I'd once loved, hurled accusations. Then my cousin, Ellie, revealed the chilling truth: Olivia wasn't just mimicking me; she was following a discarded script Ellie had written – a story where the "sweet" rival replaced and killed the heiress.

This wasn't just about betrayal; it was a deranged, literal plot for my life, orchestrated by those I trusted most. The sheer audacity of them trying to write my ending, to cast me out and then erase me completely, ignited a cold fury I never knew I possessed.

They wanted me dead? Fine. I decided then and there that if they wanted to follow a script, *I* would write the new ending. And it would start with my very public, very convincing "death." This time, I'd pull the strings from the shadows, making sure everyone got exactly what they deserved.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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