From Cursed Child to Trueborn Scion

From Cursed Child to Trueborn Scion

Gavin

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For years, I lived in the hallowed halls of the Blackwood estate, a shadow. My supposed mother, Agnes, systematically siphoned my spiritual energy, gifting it to her own daughter, Claire, who reveled in every stolen blessing. I was the family's "cursed" child, scarred and suffering, my true, ancient Silvercreek power suppressed, biding my time. My life, a lie, a carefully constructed illusion of weakness. Then came the Founder's Centennial Gala. Agnes, consumed by hubris, decided this was her stage. She orchestrated a twisted plan: publicly declare Claire her biological child, and use me as live bait to lure a mythical beast, the Old Man of the Mountain, to steal its powerful Heartstone for Claire. I endured the unimaginable: dragged to sacred peaks, brutally mauled, left for dead, then hauled back to the glittering ballroom, bleeding and broken, a grotesque spectacle. Guests gasped, recoiled in disgust. Agnes beamed, ready to deliver her grand, self-serving revelation, believing her triumph was at hand. They thought me a pitiful, broken creature, a mere pawn in their twisted game. Did they truly believe I had endured decades of torment, of stolen life and power, only for a final humiliation? Did they think my silence was weakness, my downtrodden gaze surrender? I watched and waited. No. The pain was my fuel, the injustice my fire. As Agnes began her smug confession, I rose, not as a victim, but as a force. The Gala wouldn't be Claire's crowning; it would be the Blackwood family's absolute reckoning. I would unveil every single one of their dark, bloody secrets, starting tonight.

Introduction

For years, I lived in the hallowed halls of the Blackwood estate, a shadow. My supposed mother, Agnes, systematically siphoned my spiritual energy, gifting it to her own daughter, Claire, who reveled in every stolen blessing. I was the family's "cursed" child, scarred and suffering, my true, ancient Silvercreek power suppressed, biding my time. My life, a lie, a carefully constructed illusion of weakness.

Then came the Founder's Centennial Gala. Agnes, consumed by hubris, decided this was her stage. She orchestrated a twisted plan: publicly declare Claire her biological child, and use me as live bait to lure a mythical beast, the Old Man of the Mountain, to steal its powerful Heartstone for Claire.

I endured the unimaginable: dragged to sacred peaks, brutally mauled, left for dead, then hauled back to the glittering ballroom, bleeding and broken, a grotesque spectacle. Guests gasped, recoiled in disgust. Agnes beamed, ready to deliver her grand, self-serving revelation, believing her triumph was at hand.

They thought me a pitiful, broken creature, a mere pawn in their twisted game. Did they truly believe I had endured decades of torment, of stolen life and power, only for a final humiliation? Did they think my silence was weakness, my downtrodden gaze surrender? I watched and waited.

No. The pain was my fuel, the injustice my fire. As Agnes began her smug confession, I rose, not as a victim, but as a force. The Gala wouldn't be Claire's crowning; it would be the Blackwood family's absolute reckoning. I would unveil every single one of their dark, bloody secrets, starting tonight.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.3

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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