Stolen Life, Stolen Style

Stolen Life, Stolen Style

Gavin

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My eyes snapped open. The dorm room ceiling, with its familiar water stain shaped like a crooked smile, loomed above. Across the room, Brianna Jones hummed softly, applying makeup. She wore a cheap copy of my cashmere sweater. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn' t right. This was weeks ago. The memories crashed down: the Paris program acceptance, the "going away" party, the sickening taste, then absolute darkness. Brianna had poisoned me. I saw her smirk, remembered collapsing. Yet here she was, her reflection smiling sweetly in her compact mirror, her voice falsely cheerful. "Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped. This was the ambitious girl from a small town. My roommate. The one who wanted my life. I stared at her, the image of her malicious triumph at my party seared into my brain. The subtle digs, the way she' d implied I was the copycat, her constant imitation of my style, my social media. She' d meticulously cataloged me, then painstakingly isolated me, even turning away Liam, the hockey captain I genuinely liked. All my kindness burned away in the hospital bed I now only remembered. "You okay, Ava?" she asked, a tilt to her head. "You look like you've seen a ghost." My parents always told me I was too trusting, too eager to see the good in people. They were right. This inexplicable situation felt like a cruel joke, yet it was real. The date on my phone confirmed it. Several weeks before the party. Before she tried to kill me. I had a second chance. And this time, I wouldn' t be naive. I wouldn' t be kind to the snake in my room. This time, Ava Miller wouldn't be a doormat. This time, I would fight.

Introduction

My eyes snapped open.

The dorm room ceiling, with its familiar water stain shaped like a crooked smile, loomed above.

Across the room, Brianna Jones hummed softly, applying makeup.

She wore a cheap copy of my cashmere sweater.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

This wasn' t right.

This was weeks ago.

The memories crashed down: the Paris program acceptance, the "going away" party, the sickening taste, then absolute darkness.

Brianna had poisoned me.

I saw her smirk, remembered collapsing.

Yet here she was, her reflection smiling sweetly in her compact mirror, her voice falsely cheerful.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped.

This was the ambitious girl from a small town.

My roommate.

The one who wanted my life.

I stared at her, the image of her malicious triumph at my party seared into my brain.

The subtle digs, the way she' d implied I was the copycat, her constant imitation of my style, my social media.

She' d meticulously cataloged me, then painstakingly isolated me, even turning away Liam, the hockey captain I genuinely liked.

All my kindness burned away in the hospital bed I now only remembered.

"You okay, Ava?" she asked, a tilt to her head.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

My parents always told me I was too trusting, too eager to see the good in people.

They were right.

This inexplicable situation felt like a cruel joke, yet it was real.

The date on my phone confirmed it.

Several weeks before the party.

Before she tried to kill me.

I had a second chance.

And this time, I wouldn' t be naive.

I wouldn' t be kind to the snake in my room.

This time, Ava Miller wouldn't be a doormat.

This time, I would fight.

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The Truth About His Mistress

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I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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