The Wife's Golden Lie

The Wife's Golden Lie

Gavin

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My life was a constant grind: three jobs, every cent, every heirloom gone, all to keep my wife, Sera, out of prison. She was supposedly in a high-end facility, recovering from a failed tech startup, and I believed I was saving her, sacrificing until nothing was left. Then the phone call came, a final, urgent demand for more money. My seven-year-old son, Leo, must have overheard my desperate pleas for "golden blood" cash. In his innocent, heartbreaking attempt to save his mom, he went to sell his own rare Rh-null blood. It killed him. At the clinic, they handed me an envelope of cash-his blood money. But the real horror began when I arrived at the facility's office, intending to make the final payment. I overheard my "imprisoned" wife, Sera, calmly discussing me and Leo with a man, Marcus Thorne: "He and the boy have served their purpose. Make sure they're given a quiet way out." She was never imprisoned; it was all a monstrous, elaborate lie. Leo's precious, life-giving blood, the very reason he died, wasn't for her freedom, but for her new baby with Marcus. My son died for a fabricated charade, for a woman who plotted his disposal. The news then flashed her radiant face, celebrating her new marriage and pregnancy, while I was left holding Leo' s blood money. Later, loan sharks, sent by Marcus, desecrated Leo' s scattered ashes in our home. There was nothing left to lose, everything had been taken. But when they defiled the last remnant of my son, something in me snapped. With nothing but a cheap pen in my hand, I fought back. The game was over. It was time to choose: crumble or rise from the ashes of my ruined life.

Introduction

My life was a constant grind: three jobs, every cent, every heirloom gone, all to keep my wife, Sera, out of prison.

She was supposedly in a high-end facility, recovering from a failed tech startup, and I believed I was saving her, sacrificing until nothing was left.

Then the phone call came, a final, urgent demand for more money.

My seven-year-old son, Leo, must have overheard my desperate pleas for "golden blood" cash.

In his innocent, heartbreaking attempt to save his mom, he went to sell his own rare Rh-null blood.

It killed him.

At the clinic, they handed me an envelope of cash-his blood money.

But the real horror began when I arrived at the facility's office, intending to make the final payment.

I overheard my "imprisoned" wife, Sera, calmly discussing me and Leo with a man, Marcus Thorne: "He and the boy have served their purpose.

Make sure they're given a quiet way out."

She was never imprisoned; it was all a monstrous, elaborate lie.

Leo's precious, life-giving blood, the very reason he died, wasn't for her freedom, but for her new baby with Marcus.

My son died for a fabricated charade, for a woman who plotted his disposal.

The news then flashed her radiant face, celebrating her new marriage and pregnancy, while I was left holding Leo' s blood money.

Later, loan sharks, sent by Marcus, desecrated Leo' s scattered ashes in our home.

There was nothing left to lose, everything had been taken.

But when they defiled the last remnant of my son, something in me snapped.

With nothing but a cheap pen in my hand, I fought back.

The game was over.

It was time to choose: crumble or rise from the ashes of my ruined life.

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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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