Abandoned to Die: Her Fight for Life

Abandoned to Die: Her Fight for Life

Gavin

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"Pancreatic cancer, aggressive," the doctor' s words hit me, Eleanor, a sixty-year-old retired librarian, like a physical blow. I rushed home to my husband, Richard, a man I' d shared forty years with, hoping for comfort, for support, for a fight plan against this death sentence. Instead, he coldly dismissed my $75,000 treatment as too expensive, citing our tight savings due to our grandson's school. Days later, a bank statement revealed the truth: a $50,000 withdrawal for "Vintage Motors LLC" was not for our family, but for a shiny red convertible. My best friend, Brenda, then called, reporting Richard and his high school sweetheart, Sylvia, recently widowed, cruising Main Street in that very car, laughing like young lovers. He bought his mistress a luxury car, flaunted her publicly, and denied me life-saving treatment. When I confronted him, he rolled his eyes, calling me "dramatic" and "hysterical," saying Sylvia "needed cheering up" and was "good for his networking." My heart shattered again when our son, Michael, whom I had always cherished and supported, sided with his father, arguing my cancer was "tough" at my age and that Sylvia had even helped his career. At Sylvia's birthday party, hosted at Michael's house (a house I helped him buy), Richard proudly introduced her as his "true partner," and when I spoke up, Michael publicly shamed me, ordering me to "just leave." The man I loved for decades, and the son I raised, chose a new relationship and career opportunities over my very life. How could they betray me so completely, so callously, leaving me to die while they celebrated? But in that moment, as I walked away, something in me finally broke free. I was done being their victim; I would fight for my life, alone, and on my own terms.

Introduction

"Pancreatic cancer, aggressive," the doctor' s words hit me, Eleanor, a sixty-year-old retired librarian, like a physical blow.

I rushed home to my husband, Richard, a man I' d shared forty years with, hoping for comfort, for support, for a fight plan against this death sentence.

Instead, he coldly dismissed my $75,000 treatment as too expensive, citing our tight savings due to our grandson's school.

Days later, a bank statement revealed the truth: a $50,000 withdrawal for "Vintage Motors LLC" was not for our family, but for a shiny red convertible.

My best friend, Brenda, then called, reporting Richard and his high school sweetheart, Sylvia, recently widowed, cruising Main Street in that very car, laughing like young lovers.

He bought his mistress a luxury car, flaunted her publicly, and denied me life-saving treatment.

When I confronted him, he rolled his eyes, calling me "dramatic" and "hysterical," saying Sylvia "needed cheering up" and was "good for his networking."

My heart shattered again when our son, Michael, whom I had always cherished and supported, sided with his father, arguing my cancer was "tough" at my age and that Sylvia had even helped his career.

At Sylvia's birthday party, hosted at Michael's house (a house I helped him buy), Richard proudly introduced her as his "true partner," and when I spoke up, Michael publicly shamed me, ordering me to "just leave."

The man I loved for decades, and the son I raised, chose a new relationship and career opportunities over my very life.

How could they betray me so completely, so callously, leaving me to die while they celebrated?

But in that moment, as I walked away, something in me finally broke free.

I was done being their victim; I would fight for my life, alone, and on my own terms.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.5

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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