The Fiancée Who Forgot Me

The Fiancée Who Forgot Me

Gavin

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The world tilted, and then went black for a second. I came to with Jess screaming my name after a cyclist hit me, and I pulled her to safety. At the hospital, with a mild concussion, I had a stupid idea: I' d pretend I had amnesia and ask Jess, "Who are you?" Her eyes widened, but then a strange, unreadable expression flickered across her face. With a voice suddenly too sweet, she leaned in and said, "Oh, Ethan, you don' t remember me? I' m Jessica, and Chloe is actually your fiancée. We were just out as friends." My mind went blank, not from the concussion, but from genuine shock. Chloe? Her best friend Chloe? Jess was selling it hard, claiming I'd been "confused" even before the accident and that Chloe was my true love. This wasn' t funny anymore; a cold feeling started in my stomach. She insisted Chloe take me home, citing that familiarity would aid my "recovery." As I lay in Chloe' s unfamiliar bed, the scent of vanilla filling the air, I realized Jess wasn't just playing along; she was hijacking my prank for her own twisted agenda. Then, I overheard her on the phone: she called me "boring" and "clingy," bragging about using Chloe as a "break" so she could see her old flame, Mark. The raw ache in my chest had nothing to do with the concussion; it was the sting of deliberate, cruel dismissal. My fiancée was throwing me away, deliberately and publicly, to pursue someone else. Why was Chloe, this quiet, uncomfortable stranger, going along with Jess' s insane scheme? My anger hardened, but so did a new resolve: if Jess wanted a break, she' d get one, but it would be entirely on my terms. I would expose her lies, one "amnesiac" step at a time.

Introduction

The world tilted, and then went black for a second.

I came to with Jess screaming my name after a cyclist hit me, and I pulled her to safety.

At the hospital, with a mild concussion, I had a stupid idea: I' d pretend I had amnesia and ask Jess, "Who are you?"

Her eyes widened, but then a strange, unreadable expression flickered across her face.

With a voice suddenly too sweet, she leaned in and said, "Oh, Ethan, you don' t remember me? I' m Jessica, and Chloe is actually your fiancée. We were just out as friends."

My mind went blank, not from the concussion, but from genuine shock.

Chloe? Her best friend Chloe?

Jess was selling it hard, claiming I'd been "confused" even before the accident and that Chloe was my true love.

This wasn' t funny anymore; a cold feeling started in my stomach.

She insisted Chloe take me home, citing that familiarity would aid my "recovery."

As I lay in Chloe' s unfamiliar bed, the scent of vanilla filling the air, I realized Jess wasn't just playing along; she was hijacking my prank for her own twisted agenda.

Then, I overheard her on the phone: she called me "boring" and "clingy," bragging about using Chloe as a "break" so she could see her old flame, Mark.

The raw ache in my chest had nothing to do with the concussion; it was the sting of deliberate, cruel dismissal.

My fiancée was throwing me away, deliberately and publicly, to pursue someone else.

Why was Chloe, this quiet, uncomfortable stranger, going along with Jess' s insane scheme?

My anger hardened, but so did a new resolve: if Jess wanted a break, she' d get one, but it would be entirely on my terms.

I would expose her lies, one "amnesiac" step at a time.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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