No Mother's Love: A Son's Fight

Gavin

Billionaires | Completed

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My father, David Miller, lay dying in our small living room, his every breath a struggle. His final whispered wish was for my mother, Victoria Hayes, the cold CEO who had abandoned us years ago for Richard Davenport and a life of immense wealth. When I called, pleading with her to see him one last time, her response was chilling. Over the faint sounds of a lavish party for her stepson, Ryan Davenport, she declared herself too "busy" to attend a dying man's bedside. My father died heartbroken, feeling her absence till the very end. But her cruelty didn't stop there. Days after the funeral, "investigators"-clearly hired by her or Davenport-accused me of cheating on my SATs and then brutally assaulted me, shattering my knee. My own mother, Victoria Hayes, not only refused consent for my emergency surgery, dismissing my critical injuries as "fabricated," but chillingly denied my father's death. The final blow came when I found my father's urn, emptied and desecrated, among the trash. How could a woman, my own mother, be so utterly monstrous? This wasn't just abandonment; it was a calculated campaign of psychological and physical destruction, aimed at erasing every trace of my father and me. Why this depth of malice? Why now? Lying broken, clutching the torn pieces of my Stanford acceptance – the dream they tried to crush – I felt a cold resolve ignite. If they wanted a war, they' d get one. I' d use the truth, an American principle they scoffed at, to expose every lie. I opened my laptop, ready to dismantle her empire piece by piece.

Family Revenge Divorce CEO Drama

Chapter 10

11-03 12:09

Introduction

My father, David Miller, lay dying in our small living room, his every breath a struggle.

His final whispered wish was for my mother, Victoria Hayes, the cold CEO who had abandoned us years ago for Richard Davenport and a life of immense wealth.

When I called, pleading with her to see him one last time, her response was chilling.

Over the faint sounds of a lavish party for her stepson, Ryan Davenport, she declared herself too "busy" to attend a dying man's bedside.

My father died heartbroken, feeling her absence till the very end.

But her cruelty didn't stop there.

Days after the funeral, "investigators"-clearly hired by her or Davenport-accused me of cheating on my SATs and then brutally assaulted me, shattering my knee.

My own mother, Victoria Hayes, not only refused consent for my emergency surgery, dismissing my critical injuries as "fabricated," but chillingly denied my father's death.

The final blow came when I found my father's urn, emptied and desecrated, among the trash.

How could a woman, my own mother, be so utterly monstrous? This wasn't just abandonment; it was a calculated campaign of psychological and physical destruction, aimed at erasing every trace of my father and me.

Why this depth of malice? Why now?

Lying broken, clutching the torn pieces of my Stanford acceptance – the dream they tried to crush – I felt a cold resolve ignite.

If they wanted a war, they' d get one.

I' d use the truth, an American principle they scoffed at, to expose every lie.

I opened my laptop, ready to dismantle her empire piece by piece.