From Naive to Ruthless

From Naive to Ruthless

Gavin

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The bell above my clinic door jingled. I was Dr. Hayes, a woman who' d finally built a life, a stable family. Pregnant with our planned baby, I believed my husband, Mark, was as excited as I was. Then Chloe, a seemingly confident student, walked in with a smile that felt sharp, unpleasant. "I'm Chloe. Mark's student," she stated, then pushed up her sleeve. There, a fresh tattoo: an infinity symbol intertwined with our anniversary date. "Mark got one too," she purred, "Matching. Cute, right? He said it symbolized forever. Our forever." My stomach clenched, the air left my lungs. That night, Mark played the doting husband, his hand resting on my pregnant belly. But I smelled her perfume, faintly. Days later, I watched on our car's security camera as Mark drove to Chloe's apartment, not a "faculty meeting." I heard him tell her, "Poor Evie. So trusting... Evie' s predictable, a bit naive." He laughed with her, calling my past, my pain, "clingy." Then came Chloe' s texts: a photo of Mark in her bed, followed by a box of my childhood cookies. "He got them for me," she wrote, "Said they reminded him of sweet, innocent things. Guess I' m his new sweet thing." He saw me as the damaged girl from the group home, easily fooled, not the woman I'd become. The man I believed saved me from my past used it to mock me with his mistress. How could I bring our baby into a home built on such casual, callous lies? The trusting, hopeful Evie was gone. I called a clinic, then a ruthless lawyer. This time, I was playing for keeps.

Introduction

The bell above my clinic door jingled.

I was Dr. Hayes, a woman who' d finally built a life, a stable family.

Pregnant with our planned baby, I believed my husband, Mark, was as excited as I was.

Then Chloe, a seemingly confident student, walked in with a smile that felt sharp, unpleasant.

"I'm Chloe. Mark's student," she stated, then pushed up her sleeve.

There, a fresh tattoo: an infinity symbol intertwined with our anniversary date.

"Mark got one too," she purred, "Matching. Cute, right? He said it symbolized forever. Our forever."

My stomach clenched, the air left my lungs.

That night, Mark played the doting husband, his hand resting on my pregnant belly.

But I smelled her perfume, faintly.

Days later, I watched on our car's security camera as Mark drove to Chloe's apartment, not a "faculty meeting."

I heard him tell her, "Poor Evie. So trusting... Evie' s predictable, a bit naive."

He laughed with her, calling my past, my pain, "clingy."

Then came Chloe' s texts: a photo of Mark in her bed, followed by a box of my childhood cookies.

"He got them for me," she wrote, "Said they reminded him of sweet, innocent things. Guess I' m his new sweet thing."

He saw me as the damaged girl from the group home, easily fooled, not the woman I'd become.

The man I believed saved me from my past used it to mock me with his mistress.

How could I bring our baby into a home built on such casual, callous lies?

The trusting, hopeful Evie was gone.

I called a clinic, then a ruthless lawyer.

This time, I was playing for keeps.

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The Contract Wife: Thorne's Redemption

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I lay in the sterile silence of the hospital, mourning the baby I never got to hold. Everyone called it a tragic accident. A slip and fall. But I knew the truth of my husband's shove. Mark finally came to visit. He didn't bring flowers; he brought a briefcase. Inside were divorce papers and a non-disclosure agreement. He calmly informed me that his mistress-my friend-was pregnant. They were his "real family" now, and they couldn't have any "unpleasantness." He threatened to use fabricated psychiatric reports to paint me as an unstable danger to myself. "Sign the papers, Clara," he warned, his voice void of emotion. "Or you'll be moved from this comfortable room to a more... secure facility. A long-term one." I looked at the man I had loved and saw a monster. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a corporate takeover of my life. He had been meeting with lawyers while I was losing our child. I wasn't his grieving wife; I was a liability being managed, a loose end to be tied. I was utterly and completely trapped. Just as despair consumed me, my parents' old lawyer appeared like a ghost from the past. She pressed a heavy, ornate key into my palm. "Your parents left you an escape route," she whispered, her eyes filled with resolve. "For a day like this." The key led to a forgotten contract, a pact made by our grandfathers decades ago. An ironclad marriage agreement, binding me to the one man my husband feared more than death itself: the ruthless, reclusive billionaire Julian Thorne.

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