Thanksgiving's Bitter Truth

Thanksgiving's Bitter Truth

Gavin

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Thanksgiving. I sat alone, picking at a dry turkey. My wife, Olivia, CEO of the brewery we built from my savings and recipes, was supposedly on a "vital business trip." Then, our young marketing intern, Leo Vance, posted an Instagram story: Olivia, radiant, carving a turkey at his "family home." His arm was around my wife, and the caption read: "Mom and Dad already love their future daughter-in-law!" I commented: "Respect your choices. Blessings." The next morning, Olivia' s furious call erupted. "What the hell were you doing? Everyone at work is talking! Leo' s devastated!" She defended him, as always, while he posted passive-aggressive videos, tagging me. My seven years, my sacrifices, my very identity – all dismissed as I was labeled "cold" and "old-fashioned," while Leo's clear incompetence became my fault. The hollow quiet in my chest swelled into a sickening realization. How could she be so willfully blind? How easily she cast aside our shared history and the empire we built, all for a manipulative intern she claimed to be "mentoring." My contributions were mundane, but his fabricated struggles were tragic. Enough. I had divorce papers she' d unknowingly signed a month prior, eager to rush off to a "conference" with Leo. I grabbed them, drove straight to my lawyer' s office, and told him the one thing I truly meant: "File it. Let the 90 days begin."

Introduction

Thanksgiving.

I sat alone, picking at a dry turkey. My wife, Olivia, CEO of the brewery we built from my savings and recipes, was supposedly on a "vital business trip."

Then, our young marketing intern, Leo Vance, posted an Instagram story: Olivia, radiant, carving a turkey at his "family home." His arm was around my wife, and the caption read: "Mom and Dad already love their future daughter-in-law!"

I commented: "Respect your choices. Blessings."

The next morning, Olivia' s furious call erupted. "What the hell were you doing? Everyone at work is talking! Leo' s devastated!"

She defended him, as always, while he posted passive-aggressive videos, tagging me. My seven years, my sacrifices, my very identity – all dismissed as I was labeled "cold" and "old-fashioned," while Leo's clear incompetence became my fault.

The hollow quiet in my chest swelled into a sickening realization.

How could she be so willfully blind? How easily she cast aside our shared history and the empire we built, all for a manipulative intern she claimed to be "mentoring." My contributions were mundane, but his fabricated struggles were tragic.

Enough. I had divorce papers she' d unknowingly signed a month prior, eager to rush off to a "conference" with Leo. I grabbed them, drove straight to my lawyer' s office, and told him the one thing I truly meant: "File it. Let the 90 days begin."

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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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