When Huge Fortune Calls

When Huge Fortune Calls

Gavin

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I believed in honest work, just like my dad, pouring every calloused dime from double shifts at the auto shop into our "house fund." Jessie, my Jessie, deserved a life better than South Philly, a little house with a picket fence was our shared dream. Every delivery gig after my shift, every tired mile, was for her, for us. But when my dad had a sudden accident, needing emergency surgery I couldn't afford, Jessie vanished. When I finally found her, she casually admitted she' d given over $15,000 of our savings to her deadbeat brother, Kyle, for yet another "startup." The woman I loved, for whom I sacrificed everything, chose her brother' s pipe dreams over my father' s life, forcing me to beg a friend for help. Then came her veiled demands for more cash, her pleas to mortgage my parents' house, and finally, her venomous outburst, calling me a "grease monkey" holding her back. After our furious breakup, she feigned illness, only to vanish again, leaving me with a forged $100,000 loan in my name, a debt orchestrated by her and a crypto fraudster named Chad. When I confronted them, I was brutally beaten and left for dead. Days later, loan sharks arrived at my door, flashing live footage of thugs threatening my recovering father, who collapsed in fear. I was on my knees, broken, devastated, about to sign away my life to pay for her betrayal, wondering how the woman I loved could so thoroughly destroy everything I held dear. But just as my trembling hand reached for the pen, my apartment door exploded open, and in walked a team of men in sharp suits, followed by a distinguished man with silver hair and steel-blue eyes, who looked at me and said, "Ethan Riley? I believe I am your grandfather." My billionaire grandfather. My story wasn't ending; it was just beginning.

Introduction

I believed in honest work, just like my dad, pouring every calloused dime from double shifts at the auto shop into our "house fund."

Jessie, my Jessie, deserved a life better than South Philly, a little house with a picket fence was our shared dream.

Every delivery gig after my shift, every tired mile, was for her, for us.

But when my dad had a sudden accident, needing emergency surgery I couldn't afford, Jessie vanished.

When I finally found her, she casually admitted she' d given over $15,000 of our savings to her deadbeat brother, Kyle, for yet another "startup."

The woman I loved, for whom I sacrificed everything, chose her brother' s pipe dreams over my father' s life, forcing me to beg a friend for help.

Then came her veiled demands for more cash, her pleas to mortgage my parents' house, and finally, her venomous outburst, calling me a "grease monkey" holding her back.

After our furious breakup, she feigned illness, only to vanish again, leaving me with a forged $100,000 loan in my name, a debt orchestrated by her and a crypto fraudster named Chad.

When I confronted them, I was brutally beaten and left for dead.

Days later, loan sharks arrived at my door, flashing live footage of thugs threatening my recovering father, who collapsed in fear.

I was on my knees, broken, devastated, about to sign away my life to pay for her betrayal, wondering how the woman I loved could so thoroughly destroy everything I held dear.

But just as my trembling hand reached for the pen, my apartment door exploded open, and in walked a team of men in sharp suits, followed by a distinguished man with silver hair and steel-blue eyes, who looked at me and said, "Ethan Riley? I believe I am your grandfather."

My billionaire grandfather.

My story wasn't ending; it was just beginning.

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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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