My Money, His Mistress

My Money, His Mistress

Gavin

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For five years, I lived as Sarah Miller, the unassuming wife of a rising tech executive. I meticulously hid my true identity as Sarah Sterling, heiress to a vast fortune, believing my quiet support was building my husband Ethan's dreams. But that carefully constructed facade shattered at a school fair. Instead of Ethan, engrossed in a "critical product demo," I found him openly laughing with his colleague, Chloe, her son perched on his shoulders, a perfect family portrait. The text "Saw you. Don't make a scene" burned my eyes as he publicly humiliated me, even tripping me. Later, when our innocent daughter Lily approached him, he coldly asked, "Whose kid is this?" The humiliation deepened when Chloe, smirking, implied Ethan was hers, and he prioritized her son over Lily. I soon discovered his "hard-earned" success was funding Chloe's lavish lifestyle, not ours. Days later, as Lily fought a severe asthma attack, Ethan, ignoring her labored breathing and hearing Chloe's laugh, dismissed my desperate plea for help as "dramatic." My world, a carefully constructed illusion, crumbled, replaced by a cold, burning rage. Years of "late nights" and "urgent work trips" weren' t ambition; they were a double life, built entirely on my blind trust and, ironically, my family' s secret funds. This wasn't just an affair; it was an elaborate deception, a meticulously orchestrated project of my own foolishness. The custom-made dollhouse I' d ordered for Lily' s birthday, now casually claimed by Ethan for Chloe's son, was the ultimate betrayal. But the Sterling heiress, buried for five years, was about to resurface. The quiet, unassuming Sarah Miller died that day. Now, as Sarah Sterling, I would reclaim my power, dismantle my husband's fraudulent empire, and show him the true cost of his betrayal.

Introduction

For five years, I lived as Sarah Miller, the unassuming wife of a rising tech executive.

I meticulously hid my true identity as Sarah Sterling, heiress to a vast fortune, believing my quiet support was building my husband Ethan's dreams.

But that carefully constructed facade shattered at a school fair.

Instead of Ethan, engrossed in a "critical product demo," I found him openly laughing with his colleague, Chloe, her son perched on his shoulders, a perfect family portrait.

The text "Saw you. Don't make a scene" burned my eyes as he publicly humiliated me, even tripping me.

Later, when our innocent daughter Lily approached him, he coldly asked, "Whose kid is this?"

The humiliation deepened when Chloe, smirking, implied Ethan was hers, and he prioritized her son over Lily.

I soon discovered his "hard-earned" success was funding Chloe's lavish lifestyle, not ours.

Days later, as Lily fought a severe asthma attack, Ethan, ignoring her labored breathing and hearing Chloe's laugh, dismissed my desperate plea for help as "dramatic."

My world, a carefully constructed illusion, crumbled, replaced by a cold, burning rage.

Years of "late nights" and "urgent work trips" weren' t ambition; they were a double life, built entirely on my blind trust and, ironically, my family' s secret funds.

This wasn't just an affair; it was an elaborate deception, a meticulously orchestrated project of my own foolishness.

The custom-made dollhouse I' d ordered for Lily' s birthday, now casually claimed by Ethan for Chloe's son, was the ultimate betrayal.

But the Sterling heiress, buried for five years, was about to resurface.

The quiet, unassuming Sarah Miller died that day.

Now, as Sarah Sterling, I would reclaim my power, dismantle my husband's fraudulent empire, and show him the true cost of his betrayal.

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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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