Poisoned Prophecy

Poisoned Prophecy

Gavin

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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.

Introduction

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.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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