The Billionaire Heiress's Final Stand

The Billionaire Heiress's Final Stand

Gavin

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The rotors thrashed the air, a desperate sound in the collapsing city. "Evie, damn it, wake up!" Ethan' s voice, tight with fury, cut through the fog in my head, his hands rough on my shoulders, shaking me towards the last transport helicopter. He was urging me to wait for Krystal, his mistress, who was probably just fixing her makeup for her "survivor" selfie. Then, a cold wave washed over me. Not fog, but brutal clarity. I had lived this exact moment before. And died because of it. In that past life, Ethan had deliberately left me behind. He' d injected me, then convinced the extraction team I was delirious, a hysterical liability, a security risk. They believed him, my "loving, concerned husband." I was deserted in that war-torn hell, the infection taking hold in some bombed-out building, until there was nothing. Later, a strange, detached knowing confirmed the worst: Ethan had returned to the States a hero, spinning a tale of my "noble sacrifice" pushing Krystal onto the plane instead of myself. My already frail parents shattered, grief their final illness, gone within months. Ethan inherited everything-the Reed fortune, the foundation, the philanthropic empire-marrying Krystal a year later in a lavish affair splashed across society pages. The memory, sharp and brutal, burned away every last vestige of my past life's naivety. How could I have been so utterly duped? The raw injustice, the horrifying betrayal, the agonizing pain of my parents' fates-it all converged into a single, chilling resolve. I was back, inexplicably given a second chance. This time, there would be no sacrifice. Only justice. I pulled away from Ethan' s desperate grasp, my voice surprisingly steady and cold. "No, Ethan." I turned, walking straight towards the loading ramp. "I'm getting on that helicopter. Now."

Introduction

The rotors thrashed the air, a desperate sound in the collapsing city.

"Evie, damn it, wake up!" Ethan' s voice, tight with fury, cut through the fog in my head, his hands rough on my shoulders, shaking me towards the last transport helicopter.

He was urging me to wait for Krystal, his mistress, who was probably just fixing her makeup for her "survivor" selfie.

Then, a cold wave washed over me.

Not fog, but brutal clarity.

I had lived this exact moment before.

And died because of it.

In that past life, Ethan had deliberately left me behind.

He' d injected me, then convinced the extraction team I was delirious, a hysterical liability, a security risk.

They believed him, my "loving, concerned husband."

I was deserted in that war-torn hell, the infection taking hold in some bombed-out building, until there was nothing.

Later, a strange, detached knowing confirmed the worst: Ethan had returned to the States a hero, spinning a tale of my "noble sacrifice" pushing Krystal onto the plane instead of myself.

My already frail parents shattered, grief their final illness, gone within months.

Ethan inherited everything-the Reed fortune, the foundation, the philanthropic empire-marrying Krystal a year later in a lavish affair splashed across society pages.

The memory, sharp and brutal, burned away every last vestige of my past life's naivety.

How could I have been so utterly duped?

The raw injustice, the horrifying betrayal, the agonizing pain of my parents' fates-it all converged into a single, chilling resolve.

I was back, inexplicably given a second chance.

This time, there would be no sacrifice.

Only justice.

I pulled away from Ethan' s desperate grasp, my voice surprisingly steady and cold.

"No, Ethan."

I turned, walking straight towards the loading ramp.

"I'm getting on that helicopter. Now."

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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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