The Wife They Buried: Now Watch Her Rise

The Wife They Buried: Now Watch Her Rise

Gavin

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My experimental cure for a degenerative neurological disease had a bizarre requirement: "positive emotional resonance." Love was a luxury my family never afforded me. My twin Jessica, my parents David and Linda, and even my husband Mark, bled me dry, taking credit for my genius. The Phoenix Foundation announced my therapy was failing: seven days until my death. Still, they demanded more. Parents needed me to fix Jessica's buggy app for a funding round. Mark required elaborate legal strategies for his career. My talent, always theirs. My head throbbed, my body failing, but they saw only annoyance, demanding I work. Jessica feigned illness, then brazenly demanded IP rights to my groundbreaking app. Mark, dismissing my imminent death as "dramatics," framed me for Jessica' s hit-and-run, securing my forced committal-a painful death sentence. He even injected me with a lethal dose. My ultimate betrayal came when Jessica brutally attacked me with shears, and Mark, seeing my bleeding face, still prioritized her comfort. Lying there, bleeding and abandoned, a cold clarity dawned: they would never change. My life, a relentless sacrifice, was ending in torment. Why did they always break me, only to demand more? But then, a whisper from the Foundation: "Protocol transition." "Karmic Retribution Resonance." Not death, but a second chance. Not for love, but for their regret. I would become Anna Hayes, an architect of their downfall, finally taking back what was mine.

Introduction

My experimental cure for a degenerative neurological disease had a bizarre requirement: "positive emotional resonance."

Love was a luxury my family never afforded me.

My twin Jessica, my parents David and Linda, and even my husband Mark, bled me dry, taking credit for my genius.

The Phoenix Foundation announced my therapy was failing: seven days until my death.

Still, they demanded more.

Parents needed me to fix Jessica's buggy app for a funding round.

Mark required elaborate legal strategies for his career.

My talent, always theirs.

My head throbbed, my body failing, but they saw only annoyance, demanding I work.

Jessica feigned illness, then brazenly demanded IP rights to my groundbreaking app.

Mark, dismissing my imminent death as "dramatics," framed me for Jessica' s hit-and-run, securing my forced committal-a painful death sentence.

He even injected me with a lethal dose.

My ultimate betrayal came when Jessica brutally attacked me with shears, and Mark, seeing my bleeding face, still prioritized her comfort.

Lying there, bleeding and abandoned, a cold clarity dawned: they would never change.

My life, a relentless sacrifice, was ending in torment.

Why did they always break me, only to demand more?

But then, a whisper from the Foundation: "Protocol transition."

"Karmic Retribution Resonance."

Not death, but a second chance.

Not for love, but for their regret.

I would become Anna Hayes, an architect of their downfall, finally taking back what was mine.

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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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