His Casual Betrayal, Her Calculated Revenge

His Casual Betrayal, Her Calculated Revenge

Gavin

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The email from the estate manager shattered the calm of my curated life. It announced unauthorized use and damage to my Hamptons beach house, the one my family built generations ago. Then I saw the photos: my custom garden, a year in the making, utterly destroyed. And worse, a priceless Brancusi sculpture, a gift from my father, in pieces by the pool. An Instagram link confirmed my nightmare: my husband Ethan's secretary, Chloe Miller, gloating with a nine-photo spread of a pool party at my house, thanking "her boss" for the "generous gift." His response was chillingly casual: "Ava, don't be so possessive. It's just a house. We have others. She needed a break." His disregard for my property, my family legacy, was a direct insult. I exacted immediate, calculated revenge, selling the house from under Chloe and seizing Ethan's prized classic cars. But the humiliation escalated when Chloe brazenly wore my custom Oscar de la Renta gown to a high-society gala, Ethan beaming by her side. My retaliations, though swift and public, only seemed to fuel his delusion, culminating in Chloe's theatrical, fake suicide attempt. He blamed me, fired loyal staff, and promoted her to a senior position. Then came the ultimate betrayal: in a hospital corridor, as I secretly clutched a sonogram image, he slapped me. Hard. "You toxic, heartless shrew!" he snarled, accusing me of driving Chloe to "suicide." He didn't see the tiny picture slip from my numb fingers. The world tilted, and my last shred of hope for our marriage, for a family, shattered. I picked up the sonogram, tearing it into tiny pieces. He would pay. He would pay for everything.

Introduction

The email from the estate manager shattered the calm of my curated life.

It announced unauthorized use and damage to my Hamptons beach house, the one my family built generations ago.

Then I saw the photos: my custom garden, a year in the making, utterly destroyed.

And worse, a priceless Brancusi sculpture, a gift from my father, in pieces by the pool.

An Instagram link confirmed my nightmare: my husband Ethan's secretary, Chloe Miller, gloating with a nine-photo spread of a pool party at my house, thanking "her boss" for the "generous gift."

His response was chillingly casual: "Ava, don't be so possessive. It's just a house. We have others. She needed a break."

His disregard for my property, my family legacy, was a direct insult.

I exacted immediate, calculated revenge, selling the house from under Chloe and seizing Ethan's prized classic cars.

But the humiliation escalated when Chloe brazenly wore my custom Oscar de la Renta gown to a high-society gala, Ethan beaming by her side.

My retaliations, though swift and public, only seemed to fuel his delusion, culminating in Chloe's theatrical, fake suicide attempt.

He blamed me, fired loyal staff, and promoted her to a senior position.

Then came the ultimate betrayal: in a hospital corridor, as I secretly clutched a sonogram image, he slapped me.

Hard.

"You toxic, heartless shrew!" he snarled, accusing me of driving Chloe to "suicide."

He didn't see the tiny picture slip from my numb fingers.

The world tilted, and my last shred of hope for our marriage, for a family, shattered.

I picked up the sonogram, tearing it into tiny pieces.

He would pay.

He would pay for everything.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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