From Scholarship Kid to Capital King

From Scholarship Kid to Capital King

Gavin

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My heart pounded. This was it – the final presentation for the American Innovators Architectural Prize. My design, "The Phoenix Initiative," was my masterpiece, my future. Then, Blake Sterling, my rival, strode onto the stage and began presenting my project. Every line, every concept, every innovative detail. Mine. My blood ran cold, but the nightmare deepened when he publicly accused me of plagiarism. Gasps filled the room, and all eyes turned to me. Then Tiffany, my fiancée of seven years, stood up beside him. Her voice trembling, she voiced her "disappointment," her tears sealing my public disgrace. I was abandoned, my life's work stolen, my reputation ruined, and my academic future jeopardized by a powerful family and a corrupt dean. The woman I loved had just publicly thrown me under the bus, dismissing seven years of history for a man she barely knew. My mind reeled from the sheer audacity, the cold betrayal. How could they do this? How could she? I felt utterly crushed, yet a chilling clarity solidified within me. They saw me as a mere scholarship kid, easily crushed, and now they demanded I apologize and help Blake refine the very project they stole, threatening to blacklist me permanently if I refused. So I agreed. But as I worked days under their watch, I wasn' t fixing his project; I was subtly implanting a fatal, hidden flaw – a ticking time bomb only designed for catastrophic failure. Then, feigning a sudden, excruciating illness, I walked out, leaving them scrambling, speeding towards a new life. They thought they had cornered me, little did they know they had just woken up the heir to Cole Capital Development.

Introduction

My heart pounded.

This was it – the final presentation for the American Innovators Architectural Prize.

My design, "The Phoenix Initiative," was my masterpiece, my future.

Then, Blake Sterling, my rival, strode onto the stage and began presenting my project.

Every line, every concept, every innovative detail.

Mine.

My blood ran cold, but the nightmare deepened when he publicly accused me of plagiarism.

Gasps filled the room, and all eyes turned to me.

Then Tiffany, my fiancée of seven years, stood up beside him.

Her voice trembling, she voiced her "disappointment," her tears sealing my public disgrace.

I was abandoned, my life's work stolen, my reputation ruined, and my academic future jeopardized by a powerful family and a corrupt dean.

The woman I loved had just publicly thrown me under the bus, dismissing seven years of history for a man she barely knew.

My mind reeled from the sheer audacity, the cold betrayal.

How could they do this?

How could she?

I felt utterly crushed, yet a chilling clarity solidified within me.

They saw me as a mere scholarship kid, easily crushed, and now they demanded I apologize and help Blake refine the very project they stole, threatening to blacklist me permanently if I refused.

So I agreed.

But as I worked days under their watch, I wasn' t fixing his project; I was subtly implanting a fatal, hidden flaw – a ticking time bomb only designed for catastrophic failure.

Then, feigning a sudden, excruciating illness, I walked out, leaving them scrambling, speeding towards a new life.

They thought they had cornered me, little did they know they had just woken up the heir to Cole Capital Development.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.3

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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