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Their Betrayal, Her Billions

Their Betrayal, Her Billions

Gavin

5.0
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11
Chapters

My world was a bland digital prison, my consciousness shunted into OmniVerse after their "Full Dive VR Consciousness Upload" experiment went belly-up, leaving me stuck in a hideous default avatar. I streamed as SeraphSix, a voice of calm in the chaos, but I was constantly battling the insidious rumors calling me a "catfish" and a fraud. Rival streamer JessiByte, more cleavage than content, fanned those flames, and "KevlarKing," my biggest tipper, arrogantly challenged me to turn on my face cam for a pathetic five hundred dollars, clearly wanting to impress her and humiliate me. He'd even stooped to leaking a blurry, out-of-context screenshot of my plain default avatar, trying to make me look bad. The constant accusations, fueled by their jealousy and entitlement, were draining. Living as merely a voice behind a mask, fighting off attacks from those who sought to expose me as a "fraud" because my forced avatar didn't match the allure they imagined from my voice and intellect, felt like a constant insult to my true self. My real life had been about beauty and presence; this default skin was a torment, and the whole situation entirely unfair, festering with cold anger. Why was I stuck fighting in this superficial world that judged only surface, while my intellectual contributions were dismissed? Why did they so desperately want to expose a "plainness" that wasn't even mine? Just as I prepared to end another exhausting stream, a private notification from the System flashed: "Host compensation protocol initiated. Restitution package available. Replicate original biometric signature onto current avatar?" My breath caught. My real face. The one I thought I' d lost forever. The game was about to change.

Introduction

My world was a bland digital prison, my consciousness shunted into OmniVerse after their "Full Dive VR Consciousness Upload" experiment went belly-up, leaving me stuck in a hideous default avatar.

I streamed as SeraphSix, a voice of calm in the chaos, but I was constantly battling the insidious rumors calling me a "catfish" and a fraud.

Rival streamer JessiByte, more cleavage than content, fanned those flames, and "KevlarKing," my biggest tipper, arrogantly challenged me to turn on my face cam for a pathetic five hundred dollars, clearly wanting to impress her and humiliate me.

He'd even stooped to leaking a blurry, out-of-context screenshot of my plain default avatar, trying to make me look bad.

The constant accusations, fueled by their jealousy and entitlement, were draining.

Living as merely a voice behind a mask, fighting off attacks from those who sought to expose me as a "fraud" because my forced avatar didn't match the allure they imagined from my voice and intellect, felt like a constant insult to my true self.

My real life had been about beauty and presence; this default skin was a torment, and the whole situation entirely unfair, festering with cold anger.

Why was I stuck fighting in this superficial world that judged only surface, while my intellectual contributions were dismissed? Why did they so desperately want to expose a "plainness" that wasn't even mine?

Just as I prepared to end another exhausting stream, a private notification from the System flashed: "Host compensation protocol initiated. Restitution package available. Replicate original biometric signature onto current avatar?"

My breath caught.

My real face. The one I thought I' d lost forever.

The game was about to change.

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His First Love, My Last Hope

His First Love, My Last Hope

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My marriage to Ethan was a practical arrangement, but I secretly longed for true love. When I unexpectedly discovered I was pregnant, a fragile hope blossomed-perhaps this baby would finally forge a real family. That hope shattered instantly. Outside the clinic, I found Ethan tending to his college sweetheart, Chloe Vanderbilt, dramatically faking a migraine. He dismissed me entirely, ordering me to run errands for her, treating me like an errand girl, not his wife. Chloe's return was a relentless, calculated campaign. Her carefully curated social media posts, featuring Ethan's relaxed smiles and comforting embraces with her, became a constant public humiliation. He'd rationalize his growing closeness, always prioritizing her "fragility" over my very existence. The final blow came via a video: my husband, kissing her deeply at a gala I was told I was "too tired" to attend. Overwhelmed, I confronted him, signing the divorce papers he' d pre-signed years ago. But Chloe wasn't done. She set a vicious trap, coercing a former friend to falsely accuse me of plotting against her. Ethan, blinded by Chloe's performance, instantly believed I was capable of malice, dismissing my desperate pleas. The ultimate devastation struck: Chloe deliberately pushed me down the stairs, resulting in a brutal, agonizing miscarriage. Ethan, finding us, rushed to Chloe's side, cradling her fabricated injuries, utterly abandoning me as I lay bleeding, my child slipping away. In that harrowing moment, all love and hope died, replaced by an unyielding resolve to uncover the truth and finally, irrevocably, reclaim my life from their poisonous lies.

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My mother, Evelyn, was born deaf-mute, burdened by an ancient prophecy: she would speak three times, and disaster would follow each utterance. I, Sarah, grew up under this constant, quiet dread. The first words came when I was a teenager, a rough whisper to my father, David: "Don't go, David." Hours later, he plunged from our high-rise balcony, an "accident" that shattered our lives. But I saw the grainy security footage: Mom stood in the doorway, simply watching him fall, her face a chilling, unreadable mask. She then vanished to her hometown, Blackwood Creek, leaving me with a growing, terrible suspicion. Five years passed, my fiancé Mark brought a fragile peace, but Mom's cryptic second words to him at a public dinner reignited the whispers. The next night, Mark was climbing his balcony railing, vacant-eyed, just like Dad, saved only by his parents' timely intervention. Then, the staticky, desperate phone call: Mom's third utterance, "Sarah, listen to me. You have to get away... Mama loves you." Her voice was raw with terror, not manipulation. Moments later, the news screamer: Evelyn Hayes found dead, an apparent suicide in Blackwood Creek. Suicide? After that warning, after that desperate love? My heart screamed; the official story felt like a carefully constructed lie designed to hide something monstrous. I refused to believe it. My mother's last terrifying words, her love, and her impossible death demanded answers. Blackwood Creek held those secrets, and I swore to uncover them, no matter the cost.

Her Father's Medal, Her Own War

Her Father's Medal, Her Own War

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My life was finally looking up. The email glowed on my phone: "Congratulations, Sarah Miller!" – a full scholarship to a top university, my ticket out of our small town and a way to honor my parents' memory. My sister, Emily, who' d been my rock running our family diner, Miller' s Plate, since Mom and Dad passed, screamed with joy with me. But our joy shattered when Mark Henderson, the spoiled son of the town's most powerful developer, swaggered into Miller's Plate. He and his thugs brutally assaulted Emily, leaving her broken and our diner in ruins, just because she refused to sell our land. The nightmare deepened at the police station. Chief Williams, clearly in Art Henderson' s pocket, dismissed it as a "mutual altercation" and advised me to take their dirty money. Then, my scholarship was mysteriously rescinded, erasing my future. My home was savagely vandalized, and our beloved cat, Patches, was found dead, a cruel message pinned to his collar: "Next time, it' s you." Every lawyer turned me away, and our once-supportive neighbors, cowed by the Hendersons' influence, looked the other way. I felt utterly crushed, alone against an empire of corruption and violence. My sister lay critical in the ICU, our home was a wreck, and they' d taken everything. What else was left for them to destroy? Amidst the wreckage, I stumbled upon my late Marine father's old footlocker. Inside, I found his Medal of Honor. "Semper Fi," he used to say – Always Faithful. A desperate, impossible hope ignited: if the local system was broken, maybe his military family, General Peterson, could remind them what justice truly meant. I clutched the medal, buying a bus ticket to Camp Lejeune, ready for the fight of my life.

Killed By Love, Reborn By Fate

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My name is Luna Boudreaux. They call me the Oracle. For generations, my family, the Boudreaux, has served the powerful Devereaux dynasty. Our sacred duty: activate the Legacy Locket to choose the next Devereaux heir, who then marries me. Today was that day, the Locket ceremony, set to fulfill our destiny. But this wasn't my first time. In my previous life, I fell desperately in love with Beau Devereaux. He was handsome, charming, everything I thought I wanted. Blinded by adoration, I committed a terrible sin. I used forbidden Boudreaux magic, a profound spiritual sacrifice, to force the Locket to choose him. I gave him everything – my family' s power, our wealth, and my entire heart. The moment he ascended, he turned into a monster. He sneered, "What Oracle? Just your desperate trick to marry me." He annulled our marriage, annihilated my family' s reputation with twisted lies, blamed us for an "accident" he orchestrated involving his obsession, Chantelle Dubois. He stripped us bare. And then, he had me killed. To my dying breath, I couldn't comprehend how a love so fierce could transform into such cold-blooded cruelty, or why I' d been so profoundly, fatally wrong. But then darkness lifted. Now, I'm back. Same place, same moment, a terrifying second chance. Beau can have Chantelle. I won' t interfere. This time, the Locket will choose truly. Fate will decide. And maybe, just maybe, I' ll uncover why, in a future vision, Beau Devereaux was on his knees, begging me to marry him instead.

Grandma's Game Plan

Grandma's Game Plan

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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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