What Money Couldn\'t Buy

What Money Couldn\'t Buy

Ellene Millstein

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The hospital air was cold, too clean, smelling like death trying to hide. I was running, lungs burning, clutching the $50,000 I'd scraped together-every cent Dad and I had, plus loans and extra shifts-desperate to save my father. He'd helped me raise the money for Izzy' s "crippling debt," a desperate plea from the woman I loved and planned to marry. I believed her, truly. Then the doctor delivered the blow: "Your father, Michael... he passed away an hour ago. He collapsed because he hadn' t been taking his prescribed medication. The expensive ones for his condition." My blood ran cold, the words echoing in the sterile hallway. He did this for Izzy. He killed himself to help my girlfriend. Numb, I found Izzy at her "struggling artist" apartment, her eyes feigning perfect concern. "It's for your debt," I rasped, handing her the thick envelope. Days later, working a catering gig, my father' s cheap cardboard urn tucked under my arm, I overheard her at a lavish party. Izzy, laughing with Liam Astor, her smug "childhood friend." "He actually passed the hardship test, Liam. Impressive, for a line cook." My blood turned to ice. Then Liam' s cruel reply: "The old man croaking was a nice touch. Really sold the desperation." They knew. They knew my father died. My father' s life, his sacrifice, was a game. A test. The love I felt for Izzy, the future I imagined with her, crumbled into ashes, just like the ones I carried. This wasn' t just betrayal; it was a grotesque, sadistic mockery. My selfless father, reduced to a pawn in her twisted elite games, his death a mere footnote in their cruel charade. The world tilted, reeling from the sheer, mind-numbing horror of it all. No. I wouldn't be their punchline. I quit my job, scattered Dad' s ashes, and left. Vanished. But when, years later, she' d desperately beg me to "come clean" and "come home" on national television, her pleas would ring hollow. I had found my peace, far from her toxic world, leaving her to the echoing silence of her monumental lies.

Introduction

The hospital air was cold, too clean, smelling like death trying to hide.

I was running, lungs burning, clutching the $50,000 I'd scraped together-every cent Dad and I had, plus loans and extra shifts-desperate to save my father.

He'd helped me raise the money for Izzy' s "crippling debt," a desperate plea from the woman I loved and planned to marry.

I believed her, truly.

Then the doctor delivered the blow: "Your father, Michael... he passed away an hour ago. He collapsed because he hadn' t been taking his prescribed medication. The expensive ones for his condition."

My blood ran cold, the words echoing in the sterile hallway.

He did this for Izzy.

He killed himself to help my girlfriend.

Numb, I found Izzy at her "struggling artist" apartment, her eyes feigning perfect concern.

"It's for your debt," I rasped, handing her the thick envelope.

Days later, working a catering gig, my father' s cheap cardboard urn tucked under my arm, I overheard her at a lavish party.

Izzy, laughing with Liam Astor, her smug "childhood friend."

"He actually passed the hardship test, Liam. Impressive, for a line cook."

My blood turned to ice.

Then Liam' s cruel reply: "The old man croaking was a nice touch. Really sold the desperation."

They knew.

They knew my father died.

My father' s life, his sacrifice, was a game. A test.

The love I felt for Izzy, the future I imagined with her, crumbled into ashes, just like the ones I carried.

This wasn' t just betrayal; it was a grotesque, sadistic mockery.

My selfless father, reduced to a pawn in her twisted elite games, his death a mere footnote in their cruel charade.

The world tilted, reeling from the sheer, mind-numbing horror of it all.

No.

I wouldn't be their punchline.

I quit my job, scattered Dad' s ashes, and left.

Vanished.

But when, years later, she' d desperately beg me to "come clean" and "come home" on national television, her pleas would ring hollow.

I had found my peace, far from her toxic world, leaving her to the echoing silence of her monumental lies.

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Betrayed By Love, Reborn In Fire

Betrayed By Love, Reborn In Fire

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Eleanor Vance, tech titaness, finally leaned back, champagne in hand, on her Monte Carlo terrace. Six months into hard-earned semi-retirement, her empire was thriving, and today, her daughter Sarah and son-in-law Mark were officially taking the reins. A notification shattered the peace. "VANCE TECH SHOCKER: NEW HEIRESS ANNOUNCED AS FOUNDER' S DAUGHTER BRANDED A FRAUD." Her blood ran cold as she saw the image: Mark, arm around a smug stranger named Lily Miller, the Vance Tech logo looming like a tombstone. Sarah' s phone went straight to voicemail. "Sarah, darling, it' s Mom. Call me back the second you get this." Mark answered, voice sickeningly cheerful. "Eleanor! Enjoying the Riviera, I hope?" Then, dropped a bombshell: "Sarah Vance is not, in fact, Eleanor Vance' s biological daughter. She is an illegitimate child… The true inheritor… is my daughter, Lily." Eleanor watched live footage: Sarah, her dress torn, screaming "He' s lying! I' m her daughter! Mom, he' s lying!" as security dragged her away. Mark' s smooth voice narrated: "Sarah has been… unwell." The camera zoomed on Sarah' s anguished face, then a guard shoved her out. The world vanished for Eleanor; only a burning rage remained. She hurled her glass, shattering it against the wall. "Get the jet ready," she commanded, voice dangerously calm. "Get me everything you can find on Jessica Brown and Lily Miller. Dig." "I' m going home," Eleanor vowed, her eyes like flint. "And I' m going to burn their world to the ground." How could Mark, her trusted son-in-law, conspire with Jessica, a former employee fired for corporate espionage, to publicly destroy her daughter and steal her legacy? The deeper horror: the faint red welts on Sarah' s back in the video; this wasn' t the first time he' d hurt her. Why hadn' t Sarah called? What kind of hell had her child been living in while she was sipping champagne across the world? The guilt was crushing, but the fury burned brighter. Eleanor wouldn't just fight; she would annihilate. "When we land, we go directly to headquarters." Mark thought he' d won; he just triggered the war of his life.

Her Escape, His Eternal Loss

Her Escape, His Eternal Loss

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The familiar ache pulsed behind my eyes, a constant companion in the sterile white room where sheets matched my pale, bruised skin. They had given me electric shock therapy again, leaving my mind a fog of agony. A key turned, and in walked Ethan Miller, the man I was supposed to marry, his face handsome but cold, etched with pity and disgust. "Still acting like this, Chloe?" he snapped, accusing me of hurting a nurse-a lie I was too broken to fight. Then Liam Thorne, my half-brother, joined him, an insincere mask of concern plastered on his face. "See, Ethan? She' s completely gone," Liam purred, blaming my supposed violent tendencies on the stress of his "illness." Ethan, my savior turned accomplice, instantly sided with Liam, his trust absolute. But then Mark Evans, a childhood friend turned doctor, assessed my condition, his voice serious as he unveiled the severe trauma and abuse they' d inflicted on me. Liam quickly deflected, accusing me of self-harm, a narrative Ethan chillingly affirmed. Liam then proposed transferring me to a private institution, the 'Thorne Wellness Center' -a name that sent a jolt of terror through me, a prison designed just for me. Desperate, I pleaded with Ethan, "Please, don' t take me there. I' ll do anything." He hesitated, a flicker of the old Ethan visible, and agreed to take me home. But Liam intervened, whispering manipulations, leading me back into the trap. I screamed as orderlies grabbed me, but it was too late. They injected the sedative, and I went limp, my savior watching as he condemned me. The torture at Thorne Wellness Center was worse than I could have imagined, leaving my mind fractured, my body starved. When Ethan finally came to pick me up, he was horrified by the skeletal, lifeless woman I had become. In that moment, a plan formed in my fragmented mind. I had to escape, even if it meant jumping from a second-story window. Under the cover of darkness, I slipped from my gilded cage, running, barefoot and silent, into the night.

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