The Price of Devotion: His Other Woman's Lies

The Price of Devotion: His Other Woman's Lies

Gavin

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I was Sarah Miller, Marcus Thorne' s wife, a public asset in his gleaming empire. Our life, from galas to high-stakes business, was a meticulously crafted facade. But Marcus' s true devotion was reserved for Vivian Hayes, his late partner' s widow and mother of his son, Leo. He canceled our feverish daughter Lily' s doctor' s appointment because Leo had a "sniffle." He fired a man for upsetting Vivian. I was always the shield, absorbing his neglect, but the line blurred when I confronted him about Vivian' s abuse of Lily. He didn' t just dismiss it; he raised his hand. Not at me, but at our own daughter. He slapped Lily, a sharp, sickening crack across her small cheek. Time stopped. Lily cried out, a small, choked sound. Marcus, his face a mask of cold indifference, simply muttered about "respecting Vivian." Later that night, reeking of Vivian' s cloying perfume, he attempted a reconciliation, only to abandon me again when she called with another supposed "panic attack." My little girl, her cheek still red, crept into my room, quietly, heartbreakingly. Her small hand found mine. "Mommy," she whispered, her voice clear despite the pain, "He' s left us for her a hundred times." Her words, old with a child' s painful wisdom, finally shattered the last, desperate shred of my endurance and hope. The final piece of my former self crumbled to dust. She looked at me, her eyes resolute. "Let' s go. We don' t need him." And in that moment, as she clung to me, I knew this wasn't just about escape. We wouldn't just leave quietly. No. We would make them pay. All of them.

Introduction

I was Sarah Miller, Marcus Thorne' s wife, a public asset in his gleaming empire.

Our life, from galas to high-stakes business, was a meticulously crafted facade.

But Marcus' s true devotion was reserved for Vivian Hayes, his late partner' s widow and mother of his son, Leo.

He canceled our feverish daughter Lily' s doctor' s appointment because Leo had a "sniffle."

He fired a man for upsetting Vivian.

I was always the shield, absorbing his neglect, but the line blurred when I confronted him about Vivian' s abuse of Lily.

He didn' t just dismiss it; he raised his hand. Not at me, but at our own daughter.

He slapped Lily, a sharp, sickening crack across her small cheek.

Time stopped.

Lily cried out, a small, choked sound.

Marcus, his face a mask of cold indifference, simply muttered about "respecting Vivian."

Later that night, reeking of Vivian' s cloying perfume, he attempted a reconciliation, only to abandon me again when she called with another supposed "panic attack."

My little girl, her cheek still red, crept into my room, quietly, heartbreakingly.

Her small hand found mine.

"Mommy," she whispered, her voice clear despite the pain, "He' s left us for her a hundred times."

Her words, old with a child' s painful wisdom, finally shattered the last, desperate shred of my endurance and hope. The final piece of my former self crumbled to dust.

She looked at me, her eyes resolute.

"Let' s go. We don' t need him."

And in that moment, as she clung to me, I knew this wasn't just about escape.

We wouldn't just leave quietly. No. We would make them pay.

All of them.

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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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