My Wife, My Tormentor

My Wife, My Tormentor

Gavin

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For five years, my wife Seraphina' s 'purity' defined my existence. My days were a relentless cycle of scrubbing, proving I was 'clean' enough for her. This pristine, empty marriage felt like a lifelong sentence. Then, a faint love bite on her collarbone sparked a flicker of doubt, quickly replaced by horror when I overheard her chilling phone call. My wife wasn' t just cruel; she was auctioning me off. The 'Ethan Experience' she chirped, chilling me to the bone. Those excruciating 'cleansings' weren't about her mysophobia; they were about erasing me for her lover, Julian. My raw, burning skin wasn't from clumsiness, but industrial-strength soaps meant to wipe away any trace of me. They filmed me, naked, for a pre-auction 'preview,' inviting a crowd of socialites to watch. My wife, the woman who claimed disgust at my touch, was selling me like property. The night arrived, and I found myself sedated, stripped, and pushed into a glass room, the auctioneer's voice already booming my 'unveiling.' How could the woman I vowed to protect turn me into a living spectacle, a commodity of contempt? The betrayal was a physical ache, the humiliation a crushing weight. Was this truly my fate, to be auctioned off, utterly broken and shamed? All for a man who claimed to be 'allergic' to me, a lie she orchestrated for five years. Just as the curtain began to rise, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the haze. My godmother, Eleanor Vance, a formidable force, burst in, holding the annulment papers I thought I'd never need. My escape began not with a fight, but with a signature, as my dignity was finally restored. That night, I didn't become a spectacle; I became free.

Introduction

For five years, my wife Seraphina' s 'purity' defined my existence.

My days were a relentless cycle of scrubbing, proving I was 'clean' enough for her.

This pristine, empty marriage felt like a lifelong sentence.

Then, a faint love bite on her collarbone sparked a flicker of doubt, quickly replaced by horror when I overheard her chilling phone call.

My wife wasn' t just cruel; she was auctioning me off.

The 'Ethan Experience' she chirped, chilling me to the bone.

Those excruciating 'cleansings' weren't about her mysophobia; they were about erasing me for her lover, Julian.

My raw, burning skin wasn't from clumsiness, but industrial-strength soaps meant to wipe away any trace of me.

They filmed me, naked, for a pre-auction 'preview,' inviting a crowd of socialites to watch.

My wife, the woman who claimed disgust at my touch, was selling me like property.

The night arrived, and I found myself sedated, stripped, and pushed into a glass room, the auctioneer's voice already booming my 'unveiling.'

How could the woman I vowed to protect turn me into a living spectacle, a commodity of contempt?

The betrayal was a physical ache, the humiliation a crushing weight.

Was this truly my fate, to be auctioned off, utterly broken and shamed?

All for a man who claimed to be 'allergic' to me, a lie she orchestrated for five years.

Just as the curtain began to rise, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the haze.

My godmother, Eleanor Vance, a formidable force, burst in, holding the annulment papers I thought I'd never need.

My escape began not with a fight, but with a signature, as my dignity was finally restored.

That night, I didn't become a spectacle; I became free.

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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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