His Perfect Prey: Her Reckoning

His Perfect Prey: Her Reckoning

Gavin

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I was Sarah Miller, a senior marketing manager, fiercely independent, building a life I was proud of. My husband, Mark, constantly praised my strength, publicly toasting "To Sarah, the most incredible woman!" I poured everything-my salary, my energy-into our home, our son Leo, and his expensive private school, believing I was crafting our shared future on my terms. But at the annual charity gala, my company card-used for "shared" household expenses because Mark' s were always mysteriously maxed out-was humiliatingly declined. Not once, but twice. A small, apologetic frown from the attendant confirmed the impossible: "I'm sorry, Ms. Miller, it's declined." Red-faced, I called Mark. "That five bucks in there is for my coffee," he sneered about the account holding my six-figure salary. Later, I discovered his Venmo: thousands transferred to a "Tiffany Evans." "Rent Support." "Shopping Spree." "Car Down Payment - BMW." His so-called "niece." Her Instagram, however, tagged "My amazing man" and flaunted new designer bags and a shiny BMW: #BestBoyfriend. My world shattered. Was my entire self-made independence just a facade, meticulously used to fund his secret life with another woman? The betrayal felt like a lead weight in my chest. That crushing realization was the final straw. So, when my chauvinistic boss brazenly took credit for my latest multi-million-dollar campaign, something snapped. "Actually, Chad," I declared, my voice steady, "that' s my campaign. I quit." Then, the words of liberation: "My dad' s monthly allowance to me in college was more than your annual salary." The time for Sarah Miller, the naive workhorse, was over. The time for Sarah Harrison had begun.

Introduction

I was Sarah Miller, a senior marketing manager, fiercely independent, building a life I was proud of.

My husband, Mark, constantly praised my strength, publicly toasting "To Sarah, the most incredible woman!"

I poured everything-my salary, my energy-into our home, our son Leo, and his expensive private school, believing I was crafting our shared future on my terms.

But at the annual charity gala, my company card-used for "shared" household expenses because Mark' s were always mysteriously maxed out-was humiliatingly declined.

Not once, but twice. A small, apologetic frown from the attendant confirmed the impossible: "I'm sorry, Ms. Miller, it's declined."

Red-faced, I called Mark.

"That five bucks in there is for my coffee," he sneered about the account holding my six-figure salary.

Later, I discovered his Venmo: thousands transferred to a "Tiffany Evans."

"Rent Support." "Shopping Spree." "Car Down Payment - BMW." His so-called "niece."

Her Instagram, however, tagged "My amazing man" and flaunted new designer bags and a shiny BMW: #BestBoyfriend.

My world shattered.

Was my entire self-made independence just a facade, meticulously used to fund his secret life with another woman? The betrayal felt like a lead weight in my chest.

That crushing realization was the final straw.

So, when my chauvinistic boss brazenly took credit for my latest multi-million-dollar campaign, something snapped.

"Actually, Chad," I declared, my voice steady, "that' s my campaign. I quit."

Then, the words of liberation: "My dad' s monthly allowance to me in college was more than your annual salary."

The time for Sarah Miller, the naive workhorse, was over. The time for Sarah Harrison had begun.

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My wedding to Ethan, the man I’d loved for five years, was weeks away. Everything was set for our future, a beautifully planned life together. Then the call came: Ethan’s high school sweetheart, Chloe, was found with severe amnesia, still believing she was his girlfriend. Ethan postponed our wedding, asked me to pretend to be his brother Liam’s girlfriend, insisting it was "for Chloe’s sake." I endured quiet agony watching him relive their past, his every loving gesture now for her. Chloe’s Instagram became a public shrine to their "rekindled" love, #TrueLove emblazoned everywhere. I even found a groundbreaking clinic for Chloe, hoping for an end, but Ethan brushed it off. Then, I overheard him: I was just a "placeholder," a "good sport" who would wait, because I had "nowhere else to go." Five years of my life, my love, my loyalty, reduced to a disposable convenience. The cold, calculated betrayal punched the air from my lungs. He thought I was trapped, that he could use me at will, then return to me, expecting gratitude. Numb, I stumbled. And then, I met Liam, Ethan’s quiet brother. "I need to get married, Liam. To someone. Soon." The words escaped me. Liam, who had watched silently, responded: "What if I said I'd marry you, Ava? For real." A dangerous, desperate plan ignited within me, fueled by pain and a fierce desire for reckoning. "Alright, Liam," I declared, a new resolve hardening my voice. "But I have conditions: Ethan must be your Best Man, and he must give me away at the altar." The charade was about to begin, but now, it was on my terms. And Ethan had no idea the bride was truly me.

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