Her Crown, Her Vengeance

Her Crown, Her Vengeance

Gavin

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My entire life revolved around Ashworth Creatives, the agency I poured my soul into building, and my fiancé, Ethan. Tonight was meant to be my crowning achievement, sealing a colossal client deal and my future within the powerful Ashworth family who' d adopted me. Then, I saw Ethan' s phone. A text from my manipulative adoptive sister, Chloe: "Heard you' re taking Ava to the gala tonight. Don' t forget our little after-party, just us. ;)" Beneath it, a damning video: Ethan and Chloe, laughing, intertwined in my private guesthouse. Chloe was draped in my deceased mother' s diamond necklace, a "gift" from Ethan, according to his text. My blood ran cold. They weren't just having an affair; they were plotting to use my marriage to secure my assets, then throw me aside, giving my agency to her. The Ashworths had groomed me, controlled me, and now, they planned to discard me like trash. I was a means to their end, and Ethan, their willing, despicable pawn. The gala-my moment of triumph-threatened to become my public humiliation. But a cold, unyielding rage ignited inside me, far stronger than any despair. I wouldn't be their victim; I would dismantle them all, piece by agonizing piece. My fingers flew across my own phone, dialing a number I' d heard whispered about, for "companions." "I need an escort," I stated, my voice flat, holding back a torrent of fury. "Tonight. For the industry gala. For a performance. You need to act like my devoted boyfriend." My revenge would be calculated, public, and absolute.

Introduction

My entire life revolved around Ashworth Creatives, the agency I poured my soul into building, and my fiancé, Ethan.

Tonight was meant to be my crowning achievement, sealing a colossal client deal and my future within the powerful Ashworth family who' d adopted me.

Then, I saw Ethan' s phone.

A text from my manipulative adoptive sister, Chloe: "Heard you' re taking Ava to the gala tonight. Don' t forget our little after-party, just us. ;)"

Beneath it, a damning video: Ethan and Chloe, laughing, intertwined in my private guesthouse.

Chloe was draped in my deceased mother' s diamond necklace, a "gift" from Ethan, according to his text.

My blood ran cold.

They weren't just having an affair; they were plotting to use my marriage to secure my assets, then throw me aside, giving my agency to her.

The Ashworths had groomed me, controlled me, and now, they planned to discard me like trash.

I was a means to their end, and Ethan, their willing, despicable pawn.

The gala-my moment of triumph-threatened to become my public humiliation.

But a cold, unyielding rage ignited inside me, far stronger than any despair.

I wouldn't be their victim; I would dismantle them all, piece by agonizing piece.

My fingers flew across my own phone, dialing a number I' d heard whispered about, for "companions."

"I need an escort," I stated, my voice flat, holding back a torrent of fury.

"Tonight. For the industry gala. For a performance. You need to act like my devoted boyfriend."

My revenge would be calculated, public, and absolute.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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