Not His Story Anymore

Not His Story Anymore

Edilaine Beckert

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Olivia stood in our penthouse, divorce papers clutched in her hand. New York City lights glittered outside, a familiar backdrop. But for me, this wasn't just déjà vu; it was a living nightmare I' d already survived. My heart didn't race, my hands didn't shake. I knew this scene too well. The last time, she came with tears, begging me to save Liam, her dead best friend' s brother, from a minor scandal. I refused, convinced she' d choose me. That choice led to my utter destruction: a framed accusation, a mysterious illness dismissed as "stress," and eventually, the pills that almost ended it all. Now, the cycle was spinning again. Liam, a rising influencer, caught in yet another scandalous "intimate moment" with Olivia. Her sustainable fashion brand' s IPO was on the line, and #OliversBoyToy was trending. My wife stood before me, trembling, just as I remembered, "Ethan, we need to do this. For Liam. For Aura. It' s just strategic." Liam stood behind her, a triumphant smirk on his face. He' d won again. A strange calm settled over me then - the calm of a man who had faced the absolute worst and survived. The sheer audacity, the blatant replay of a script that nearly killed me, filled me not with anger, but with a cold, clear recognition. How could I ever be enough for someone who constantly chose this parasitic man over me? When I said, "Okay, I' ll sign them," Olivia stared, her mouth agape, expecting a fight. But I had one crucial condition, a non-negotiable term for this final act: "Once this is done, you never contact me again. We' re done. For good." This time, I choose my own ending. This time, I walk away.

Introduction

Olivia stood in our penthouse, divorce papers clutched in her hand. New York City lights glittered outside, a familiar backdrop. But for me, this wasn' t just déjà vu; it was a living nightmare I' d already survived.

My heart didn't race, my hands didn't shake. I knew this scene too well. The last time, she came with tears, begging me to save Liam, her dead best friend' s brother, from a minor scandal. I refused, convinced she' d choose me. That choice led to my utter destruction: a framed accusation, a mysterious illness dismissed as "stress," and eventually, the pills that almost ended it all.

Now, the cycle was spinning again. Liam, a rising influencer, caught in yet another scandalous "intimate moment" with Olivia. Her sustainable fashion brand' s IPO was on the line, and #OliversBoyToy was trending. My wife stood before me, trembling, just as I remembered, "Ethan, we need to do this. For Liam. For Aura. It' s just strategic." Liam stood behind her, a triumphant smirk on his face. He' d won again.

A strange calm settled over me then - the calm of a man who had faced the absolute worst and survived. The sheer audacity, the blatant replay of a script that nearly killed me, filled me not with anger, but with a cold, clear recognition. How could I ever be enough for someone who constantly chose this parasitic man over me?

When I said, "Okay, I' ll sign them," Olivia stared, her mouth agape, expecting a fight. But I had one crucial condition, a non-negotiable term for this final act: "Once this is done, you never contact me again. We' re done. For good." This time, I choose my own ending. This time, I walk away.

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The Unloved Bride: Her Heart's Legacy

The Unloved Bride: Her Heart's Legacy

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I' ve been dead for three years. From the quiet place I existed, I watched my family's tech company crumble, my father's health fail, and my mother turn into a ghost of her former self. My beautiful sister, Brittany, had five fiancés, each dying before their wedding day, a tragedy the papers called a curse. Desperate, my father hired Madame Zelda, a spiritual medium, to banish the "restless spirit" causing their misery. She walked in, took one look, and declared, "The problem isn' t a curse on this house. It' s a spirit. Your youngest daughter, Chloe." My mother' s reaction chilled me to my core: "That little brat. Even dead she' s causing trouble! Always bringing us misery! She was a jinx from the day she was born!" That night, I watched her drag every last one of my belongings into the backyard and set them ablaze. If I could go back, she screamed, she' d make sure I never saw the light of day. I always knew no one loved me, but I never understood why. They were so worried about ghosts, yet the real monsters lived right there, down the hall. When Miller Innovations finally collapsed, my father' s heart gave out again. More desperate, they called Madame Zelda, begging her to banish me for good. "The energy is not coming from your current home. It' s stronger elsewhere. The old family estate. The place she was last seen. That is the source." My mother, frantic, shouted, "We have to dig her up! We have to burn her bones!" Brittany, ever the angel, rushed to comfort her, "Poor Chloe… she must be in so much pain to lash out like this. We have to help her find peace." But I saw the cold, calculating satisfaction flash in her eyes. They were coming for me, convinced they were victims fighting a monster. At the estate, as my father and uncles dug into the earth, Brittany sobbed, "I was the one who convinced her to come here that day. She said she wanted to bury a time capsule." A phantom pain hit me. I wasn' t excited; I was terrified. Their shovels struck something hard-a small, cheap wooden box. Not a coffin, just a crate. They pried it open, expecting bones. But the coffin was empty. Panic erupted. My aunt shrieked, "The demon has taken her body!" Madame Zelda picked up a mud-caked digital photo frame from the bottom of the box. "The spirit is not in the ground. It is in the truth." She powered it on. The screen flickered to life, showing me as a happy child, then as a teenager, full of trust, thanking Brittany. Brittany collapsed, sobbing, "I just wanted her to be happy!" My parents comforted her, then looked at the empty coffin and the frame with renewed anger. They still thought I was mocking them. But I saw Brittany' s eyes turn cold and hard. Her grief was a performance.

Grandma's Game Plan

Grandma's Game Plan

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5.0

My name is Sarah Miller, and at twenty-two, my suburban New Jersey life felt like it was shrinking daily. The reason? Brenda Hayes, my father's "executive assistant," a title as flimsy as her tight dresses, who was steadily dismantling our family. She was younger than my mom, Carol, and my father, Rick, was completely under Brenda's spell, treating my kind, gentle mother like a faded photograph. I watched my mother's spirit dim, powerless, full of a quiet sadness that broke my heart. I saw the truth about Brenda and Rick' s affair, but my desperate protests only made my father angry and defensive, and earned me Brenda's chilling, venomous glare. One evening, driving home from my part-time library job, blinding headlights and screeching tires suddenly filled my vision. A monstrous crash. Pain, then utter darkness. My life, systematically destroyed by what I instinctively knew was Brenda' s work, became a body in a hospital bed, entangled in wires and tubes, in a persistent vegetative state. They called it a hit-and-run, convenient, but I was a prisoner in my own skull, aware of the injustice, burning with a helpless rage. Then, a flicker. I woke up. But it wasn' t my own body, nor was I in my sterile hospital room. My consciousness had inexplicably lodged itself inside my grandmother Esther' s body, recovering from a minor heart procedure in a different hospital. And when I saw the newspaper on the bedside table, a chilling realization hit me. The date was three months before my accident. I was in the past, in my grandmother' s aging body. This wasn't just impossible; it was a miraculous, terrifying chance. A chance to save my mother from her slow demise. A chance to stop Brenda Hayes before she could ruin everything. A cold, unyielding fury, sharpened by my previous helplessness, solidified within Esther' s frame. Brenda Hayes was finally going to pay, and this time, I had a plan.

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