The Fortune of Betrayal

The Fortune of Betrayal

Gavin

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The annual "Vintage Harvest Charity Ball" was meant to be a crowning jewel for the Miller family, a night of proud philanthropy and confirmed alliances. Instead, it became the stage for my public execution. My fiancée, Victoria Lexington, snatched the microphone, her smile frozen, her eyes devoid of warmth. In front of a stunned ballroom of California' s elite, she declared she' d found "authentic love" with a bronzed fitness influencer, Chase Ryder, publicly dumping me and shattering decades of Miller family honor. My blood ran cold as whispers turned to a roaring judgment, humiliation searing into every fiber of my being. Headlines screamed "LEXINGTON HEIRESS DUMPS MILLER SCION AT FAMILY GALA!" and the weight of public spectacle, coupled with the profound sting of personal betrayal, was suffocating. Then, in a truly grotesque twist, Tori's father, desperate to salvage his crumbling business ties, offered me his other daughters-like spare parts for a broken deal, adding insult to profound injury. How could someone so casually burn everything down, yet brazenly provoke us further, twisting reality to paint themselves as the wronged party? Their continued taunts, their unapologetic audacity, only fueled the fire, transforming my heartbreak into a simmering, ice-cold rage. The public seemed to side with their "authentic love" narrative, leaving me alone in the fallout. But my grandfather, Arthur Miller, spoke of "pruning diseased branches" and protecting the vineyard, transforming a public humiliation into a cold, dangerous promise. This wasn't just about a broken engagement. It was a calculated declaration of war against the Millers, and I was about to unleash the quiet, ruthless power of my family' s way. Now, it was my turn to redefine the terms of engagement and cultivate a future on my own terms.

Introduction

The annual "Vintage Harvest Charity Ball" was meant to be a crowning jewel for the Miller family, a night of proud philanthropy and confirmed alliances.

Instead, it became the stage for my public execution.

My fiancée, Victoria Lexington, snatched the microphone, her smile frozen, her eyes devoid of warmth.

In front of a stunned ballroom of California' s elite, she declared she' d found "authentic love" with a bronzed fitness influencer, Chase Ryder, publicly dumping me and shattering decades of Miller family honor.

My blood ran cold as whispers turned to a roaring judgment, humiliation searing into every fiber of my being.

Headlines screamed "LEXINGTON HEIRESS DUMPS MILLER SCION AT FAMILY GALA!" and the weight of public spectacle, coupled with the profound sting of personal betrayal, was suffocating.

Then, in a truly grotesque twist, Tori's father, desperate to salvage his crumbling business ties, offered me his other daughters-like spare parts for a broken deal, adding insult to profound injury.

How could someone so casually burn everything down, yet brazenly provoke us further, twisting reality to paint themselves as the wronged party?

Their continued taunts, their unapologetic audacity, only fueled the fire, transforming my heartbreak into a simmering, ice-cold rage.

The public seemed to side with their "authentic love" narrative, leaving me alone in the fallout.

But my grandfather, Arthur Miller, spoke of "pruning diseased branches" and protecting the vineyard, transforming a public humiliation into a cold, dangerous promise.

This wasn't just about a broken engagement.

It was a calculated declaration of war against the Millers, and I was about to unleash the quiet, ruthless power of my family' s way.

Now, it was my turn to redefine the terms of engagement and cultivate a future on my own terms.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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