I Made My Fiancé Lost It All

I Made My Fiancé Lost It All

Shirlee Melnick

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I was just a third-grade teacher, my life with my musician fiancé, Ethan, humming along. Our wedding was three weeks away, a dream I' d poured my savings and heart into, supporting his band from day one. But then I saw him. At "Book Nook Brews," not at band rehearsal, but with Chloe, his young intern. He was laughing with her, a genuine laugh I hadn't heard directed at me in months, his hand intimately on hers. The world instantly tilted off its axis. The next morning, the city' s biggest music blog confirmed my worst fears, plastered with photos of them. Yet, Ethan called, not to apologize, but to dismiss it as a "PR stunt," calling Chloe his "temporary PR girlfriend." He even expected me to be excited the wedding would be "bigger news" after his "promotional trip." Later, when I confronted him, he shoved me, causing me to stumble onto broken glass, cutting my hand deeply. He abandoned me bleeding, rushing off to comfort Chloe for a self-inflicted scratch. How could the man I loved be so cold, so manipulative, so utterly, shamelessly devoid of concern for my pain? Why had I sacrificed so much for someone who valued public image over basic human decency? The sting of betrayal was a physical ache, but a cold, hard resolve began to settle in. His final, hollow "love you" felt like ash in my mouth. That' s when I picked up the phone. "Aunt Carol," I said, my voice steady now. "I need a favor. Can you change the groom\'s name on the wedding invitations? To David Miller." And just like that, my meticulous plan, and my new life, began.

Introduction

I was just a third-grade teacher, my life with my musician fiancé, Ethan, humming along. Our wedding was three weeks away, a dream I' d poured my savings and heart into, supporting his band from day one.

But then I saw him. At "Book Nook Brews," not at band rehearsal, but with Chloe, his young intern. He was laughing with her, a genuine laugh I hadn't heard directed at me in months, his hand intimately on hers. The world instantly tilted off its axis.

The next morning, the city' s biggest music blog confirmed my worst fears, plastered with photos of them. Yet, Ethan called, not to apologize, but to dismiss it as a "PR stunt," calling Chloe his "temporary PR girlfriend." He even expected me to be excited the wedding would be "bigger news" after his "promotional trip." Later, when I confronted him, he shoved me, causing me to stumble onto broken glass, cutting my hand deeply. He abandoned me bleeding, rushing off to comfort Chloe for a self-inflicted scratch.

How could the man I loved be so cold, so manipulative, so utterly, shamelessly devoid of concern for my pain? Why had I sacrificed so much for someone who valued public image over basic human decency? The sting of betrayal was a physical ache, but a cold, hard resolve began to settle in.

His final, hollow "love you" felt like ash in my mouth. That' s when I picked up the phone. "Aunt Carol," I said, my voice steady now. "I need a favor. Can you change the groom\'s name on the wedding invitations? To David Miller." And just like that, my meticulous plan, and my new life, began.

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The Surgeon's Wife: A Postmortem Love

The Surgeon's Wife: A Postmortem Love

Horror

5.0

I feel the cold first. It' s the stainless-steel table beneath me, as my soul hovers just above, watching. The man in blue scrubs, my husband Dr. Ethan Cole, picks up a scalpel. He's a surgeon, brilliant they say, but today he' s playing forensic pathologist to my dismembered body. My body is in pieces-a leg here, an arm there. My soul is hollow, devoid of anger or jealousy, as Ethan and his assistant try to piece me together. He remarks, "This is a mess. The killer was thorough. Almost… personal." His voice sends shivers down what used to be my spine, reminding me of all the times he' d used that same dismissive tone. He finds a dark splinter near my ribs, speculating about where I was held. Moments later, his phone rings, and his voice softens for Olivia Hayes, inviting her to her birthday, then turning to me with pure disgust, muttering, "Let' s get this over with." Then he finds our secret. A tiny, nascent fetus within me. His mask shatters, replaced by a choked, guttural sound of shock, horror, and something else-a child he just declared not worth his money. Clara, my best friend, calls, frantic. Ethan coldly dismisses her, claiming ignorance of my whereabouts and indifference. Olivia arrives, radiant in red, bringing him soup. As she turns, her elbow bumps a tray of instruments, and caught off guard, a flash of pure, venomous rage twists her face – a look that unmasks my killer: Olivia. My last memories flood back: Olivia, silhouetted, smiling, whispering, "He' s mine, Chloe," before raising the hammer. Now I watch her ladle soup for Ethan, realizing my death freed him, made him hers. And a foolish, broken part of me thinks, 'Maybe it' s for the best. If my death makes him happy, then let him be happy.' But then Olivia answers Clara' s call, and, with a cruel smirk, lies, framing me as an unfaithful wife who ran off with "Ryan something." Just before Ethan rushes off, claiming a work emergency, I see him make a furtive call to Detective Ryan O' Malley, telling him to ping my real phone. And just as Olivia confidently shoves something into her bag after he leaves, it slips out: my phone, with its cracked screen and cat charm. I know exactly where Ethan is going now-to find my phone at Olivia' s other apartment-and the labyrinth of lies begins to unravel.

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