The Love He Couldn't See

The Love He Couldn't See

Miss Demeanor

5.0
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My lungs were failing, but my music was finally taking flight. I was a dying folk singer, determined to record my father's unfinished songs – a legacy. A grant from the prestigious Astor Family Arts Foundation felt like a miracle, a chance to complete my final masterpiece. Then, the "miracle" became a nightmare. The foundation was run by Ethan's family-my ex-fiancé's. And then *she* crashed into my world: Bella Thorne, America's sweetheart pop star, Ethan's new, very public girlfriend, announced she'd "collaborate." It wasn't collaboration; it was a hostile takeover. Bella and her producers butchered my raw sound, demanding synths and demanding co-writing credits on my father's decades-old lyrics. They wanted to make it "pop," to erase me. Bella's cruel jabs became relentless, each comment a tiny cut. My health, already fractured, spiraled with the stress-coughing fits, nosebleeds I desperately tried to hide. Ethan, the man I once loved, stood by, a silent, unreadable observer, always by *her* side. He watched my spirit being systematically dismantled. Then, in a moment of manufactured fury, Bella "accidentally" slammed my father's vintage guitar to the floor, splitting it in two. The guitar wasn't just wood; it was my soul, my last connection to him. Bella then posted a tearful video, portraying herself as heartbroken, casting *me* as the volatile drama queen. The internet, fueled by carefully leaked old photos of Ethan and me, branded me a gold-digging manipulator, faking my illness for attention. Even Ethan, seeing Bella's performance, was convinced. He texted, offering to "replace" my irreplaceable guitar, further proving he never truly understood. I was dying, fighting for my art, and the world thought I was faking. How could he be so blind? With trembling fingers, I deleted Ethan's contact. My legacy, my final gift, was being ripped apart, but I wouldn't let them silence the truth in my music. I had to protect it, even if it cost me everything.

Introduction

My lungs were failing, but my music was finally taking flight.

I was a dying folk singer, determined to record my father's unfinished songs – a legacy.

A grant from the prestigious Astor Family Arts Foundation felt like a miracle, a chance to complete my final masterpiece.

Then, the "miracle" became a nightmare.

The foundation was run by Ethan's family-my ex-fiancé's.

And then *she* crashed into my world: Bella Thorne, America's sweetheart pop star, Ethan's new, very public girlfriend, announced she'd "collaborate."

It wasn't collaboration; it was a hostile takeover.

Bella and her producers butchered my raw sound, demanding synths and demanding co-writing credits on my father's decades-old lyrics.

They wanted to make it "pop," to erase me.

Bella's cruel jabs became relentless, each comment a tiny cut.

My health, already fractured, spiraled with the stress-coughing fits, nosebleeds I desperately tried to hide.

Ethan, the man I once loved, stood by, a silent, unreadable observer, always by *her* side.

He watched my spirit being systematically dismantled.

Then, in a moment of manufactured fury, Bella "accidentally" slammed my father's vintage guitar to the floor, splitting it in two.

The guitar wasn't just wood; it was my soul, my last connection to him.

Bella then posted a tearful video, portraying herself as heartbroken, casting *me* as the volatile drama queen.

The internet, fueled by carefully leaked old photos of Ethan and me, branded me a gold-digging manipulator, faking my illness for attention.

Even Ethan, seeing Bella's performance, was convinced.

He texted, offering to "replace" my irreplaceable guitar, further proving he never truly understood.

I was dying, fighting for my art, and the world thought I was faking.

How could he be so blind?

With trembling fingers, I deleted Ethan's contact.

My legacy, my final gift, was being ripped apart, but I wouldn't let them silence the truth in my music.

I had to protect it, even if it cost me everything.

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Reborn Heiress: My Family's Bitter Karma

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On my eighteenth birthday, the celestial pact hiding my aura finally expired. I stood on the rotting steps of the trailer, watching my foster family celebrate my eviction like they’d won the lottery. Brenda threw a liability waiver at me to sign, ensuring I’d never ask for a dime of their welfare checks again. Worse, her daughter Regina stood there smirking, flaunting the heirloom emerald bracelet she’d stolen from my secret stash—unaware it was a spiritual artifact soaked in fifty years of blood magic. "Consider it payment for room and board, freak," Regina sneered, forcing the silver band over her wrist. They thought they were discarding a burden. They didn't realize I was the only dam holding back a tidal wave of their own bad karma. As I signed the papers, voluntarily severing our ties, the air pressure plummeted. The bracelet began to constrict like a snake, turning Regina’s flesh a necrotic purple as the protection I offered vanished. Before they could scream, a matte black helicopter bearing the Sterling Industries crest descended onto the muddy lawn, blowing their plastic lawn chairs into the neighbor's yard. A man in a bespoke charcoal suit stepped out, ignoring the filth to bow before me. He looked at my terrified foster family and announced, "We are here to retrieve the Sterling heiress." I smiled at Regina, whose arm was already beginning to rot, and whispered, "Keep the bracelet. You'll need it to pay for the amputation."

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