His Love, Her Blinding Hate

His Love, Her Blinding Hate

Gavin

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Ava Monroe. For five years, my marriage to Ethan Hayes was a bitter war, not a union. I publicly loathed him, clinging to my childhood sweetheart Liam, convinced Ethan was the villain in my life. Then, the unimaginable happened: Ethan died, stabbed by a masked intruder. His desperate, dying call? I dismissed it, hanging up my phone, thinking it just another attempt at control. But death didn't stop him; for five agonizing days, he was back, a visible, tangible spirit. Liam' s insidious whispers fueled my contempt, convincing me Ethan' s ghostly return was merely another manipulative game. I accused him of staging attacks, forced him to kneel publicly, and even held his head underwater in our pool, demanding confessions for lies. At a grand gala, after I slapped him for a supposed poisoning concocted by Liam, Ethan finally broke, slapping me back with a raw, desperate love in his eyes that I was too numb to see. He then vanished, leaving only a final, haunting note. I thought I was finally free, but the ensuing silence grew louder than any conflict. Until I found his horrifically decomposed body and that letter, detailing a fantastical "Gatekeeper," a five-day reprieve, and how my own icy "I will never love you" had sealed his fate. My world didn't just shatter; it exploded, revealing that I had inadvertently killed the man who had secretly loved me. With chilling clarity, the pieces clicked into place: Liam' s "sympathy," his manufactured chaos, his constant poisoning of my mind. He was the architect of Ethan's murder, the true monster, the puppet master of my destruction. My grief transmuted into a glacial rage, as Liam thought my husband's death cleared his path to me, yet he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

Introduction

Ava Monroe. For five years, my marriage to Ethan Hayes was a bitter war, not a union.

I publicly loathed him, clinging to my childhood sweetheart Liam, convinced Ethan was the villain in my life.

Then, the unimaginable happened: Ethan died, stabbed by a masked intruder.

His desperate, dying call? I dismissed it, hanging up my phone, thinking it just another attempt at control.

But death didn't stop him; for five agonizing days, he was back, a visible, tangible spirit.

Liam' s insidious whispers fueled my contempt, convincing me Ethan' s ghostly return was merely another manipulative game.

I accused him of staging attacks, forced him to kneel publicly, and even held his head underwater in our pool, demanding confessions for lies.

At a grand gala, after I slapped him for a supposed poisoning concocted by Liam, Ethan finally broke, slapping me back with a raw, desperate love in his eyes that I was too numb to see.

He then vanished, leaving only a final, haunting note.

I thought I was finally free, but the ensuing silence grew louder than any conflict.

Until I found his horrifically decomposed body and that letter, detailing a fantastical "Gatekeeper," a five-day reprieve, and how my own icy "I will never love you" had sealed his fate.

My world didn't just shatter; it exploded, revealing that I had inadvertently killed the man who had secretly loved me.

With chilling clarity, the pieces clicked into place: Liam' s "sympathy," his manufactured chaos, his constant poisoning of my mind.

He was the architect of Ethan's murder, the true monster, the puppet master of my destruction.

My grief transmuted into a glacial rage, as Liam thought my husband's death cleared his path to me, yet he was about to learn just how wrong he was.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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