From Heartbreak to Heiress: A Philanthropist's Rise

From Heartbreak to Heiress: A Philanthropist's Rise

Gavin

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Ethan Bishop promised me a future seven times. Seven times I pictured Napa weddings, picket fences, or at least a lease with both our names on it. And seven times, his college "one that got away," Olivia Hayes, would drift back into San Francisco, and Ethan would suddenly need "space" or declare it "bad timing." This time, he swore it would be different – a house in Mill Valley, a real future – once the funding round with Olivia's firm closed. Then he breezed in, buzzing about a "critical pre-meeting dinner" with her. I didn't scream, I didn't cry. I just pulled out the dusty cardboard box, already packed with every hopeful trinket, every broken promise. "It's yours," I said, my voice flat, placing it at his feet. He just scoffed. "Don't be dramatic." "We'll talk after this Olivia deal." "Gotta run, she's waiting." He didn't even look back. Seven times I'd been "a little overwhelmed" or "not used to this world," while he prioritized Olivia's comfort. The burning humiliation from a past public betrayal finally extinguished the last flicker of hope. This wasn't just another storm he could weather; it was the unequivocal end. That night, no more tears. The next morning, as he met with Olivia, convinced I was just "pouting," I called a moving company. I emptied my half of our apartment, leaving his favorite takeout menu-now useless to me. No note. Nothing left to say. Then, I dialed a number I hadn't called in over a decade: my Grandma Eleanor.

Introduction

Ethan Bishop promised me a future seven times.

Seven times I pictured Napa weddings, picket fences, or at least a lease with both our names on it.

And seven times, his college "one that got away," Olivia Hayes, would drift back into San Francisco, and Ethan would suddenly need "space" or declare it "bad timing."

This time, he swore it would be different – a house in Mill Valley, a real future – once the funding round with Olivia's firm closed.

Then he breezed in, buzzing about a "critical pre-meeting dinner" with her.

I didn't scream, I didn't cry.

I just pulled out the dusty cardboard box, already packed with every hopeful trinket, every broken promise.

"It's yours," I said, my voice flat, placing it at his feet.

He just scoffed.

"Don't be dramatic."

"We'll talk after this Olivia deal."

"Gotta run, she's waiting."

He didn't even look back.

Seven times I'd been "a little overwhelmed" or "not used to this world," while he prioritized Olivia's comfort.

The burning humiliation from a past public betrayal finally extinguished the last flicker of hope.

This wasn't just another storm he could weather; it was the unequivocal end.

That night, no more tears.

The next morning, as he met with Olivia, convinced I was just "pouting," I called a moving company.

I emptied my half of our apartment, leaving his favorite takeout menu-now useless to me.

No note.

Nothing left to say.

Then, I dialed a number I hadn't called in over a decade: my Grandma Eleanor.

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When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

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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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