Married to My Protector: The Patriarch's Love

Married to My Protector: The Patriarch's Love

Gavin

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My office monitor, usually a serene portal to the grand Vance estate gates, offered a peaceful view of my perfectly ordered life. As Mrs. Vance, managing this dynasty was my daily routine, a far cry from my past as a script supervisor. Today, the screen showed him: Ethan Vance Jr., the man who shattered my world three years ago. Three years since he' d abandoned me at our Malibu wedding, turning my fairytale into tabloid fodder. He looked almost the same, carelessly handsome, but beside him stood Chloe Monroe, her hand possessively resting on a visibly pregnant stomach. My intercom buzzed with the news: "Mrs. Vance, Mr. Ethan Vance Jr. is at the gate, demanding entry." He strode in, still full of that entitled swagger, proclaiming his pregnant girlfriend would bear the true Vance heir. Then, with breathtaking audacity, he smirked and demanded I "make him some coffee," as if I were a mere servant to be dismissed and ordered. He truly believed he could waltz back in and claim what he considered "his," including a subservient me, as if no time had passed. The sheer insolence of his return, his assumption that I was still the heartbroken girl he' d scorned, was almost comedic. My heart, however, thudded with a cold, hard resolve, not the pain of old wounds. He stood there, completely oblivious, ready to strip me of everything he thought I had. But he had absolutely no idea about the incredible, unexpected life I had built since he walked away. Just as his arrogant pronouncements threatened to consume the opulent living room, the immediate future of the Vance legacy ran towards me. Small feet pitter-pattered from the hallway, followed by a cheerful shout: "Mommy! Mommy, can we go to the park?" A two-year-old boy, with a shock of dark hair and the unmistakable Vance family blue eyes, ran straight into my waiting arms. "This," I calmly stated, looking directly into Ethan Jr.'s now horrified face, "is your half-brother, Leo Vance."

Introduction

My office monitor, usually a serene portal to the grand Vance estate gates, offered a peaceful view of my perfectly ordered life.

As Mrs. Vance, managing this dynasty was my daily routine, a far cry from my past as a script supervisor.

Today, the screen showed him: Ethan Vance Jr., the man who shattered my world three years ago.

Three years since he' d abandoned me at our Malibu wedding, turning my fairytale into tabloid fodder.

He looked almost the same, carelessly handsome, but beside him stood Chloe Monroe, her hand possessively resting on a visibly pregnant stomach.

My intercom buzzed with the news: "Mrs. Vance, Mr. Ethan Vance Jr. is at the gate, demanding entry."

He strode in, still full of that entitled swagger, proclaiming his pregnant girlfriend would bear the true Vance heir.

Then, with breathtaking audacity, he smirked and demanded I "make him some coffee," as if I were a mere servant to be dismissed and ordered.

He truly believed he could waltz back in and claim what he considered "his," including a subservient me, as if no time had passed.

The sheer insolence of his return, his assumption that I was still the heartbroken girl he' d scorned, was almost comedic.

My heart, however, thudded with a cold, hard resolve, not the pain of old wounds.

He stood there, completely oblivious, ready to strip me of everything he thought I had.

But he had absolutely no idea about the incredible, unexpected life I had built since he walked away.

Just as his arrogant pronouncements threatened to consume the opulent living room, the immediate future of the Vance legacy ran towards me.

Small feet pitter-pattered from the hallway, followed by a cheerful shout: "Mommy! Mommy, can we go to the park?"

A two-year-old boy, with a shock of dark hair and the unmistakable Vance family blue eyes, ran straight into my waiting arms.

"This," I calmly stated, looking directly into Ethan Jr.'s now horrified face, "is your half-brother, Leo Vance."

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Broken Bonds, New Bloom

Broken Bonds, New Bloom

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The judge' s voice was a low drone, stamping out the last echoes of a life I barely recognized. "Divorce granted." My husband, Daniel, wasn' t there, called away by "duty"-a last-minute training, his lawyer smoothly explained. It was always duty, always Olivia, his "fragile" niece, who overshadowed everything. My last day at the fire station, a small comfort, was shattered when Daniel appeared, asking me to drop the papers. He even tried a surprise birthday gift, only to abandon me when Olivia had another "panic attack." I filed for divorce, expediting my transfer to a small town. But before I could leave, Daniel burst in with Olivia, whose innocent eyes hid a smirk. They' d invaded my last sanctuary. Then, I overheard Olivia, the so-called fragile niece, passionately kissing Daniel while begging him to choose her and "let me go." My world crumbled. This wasn't a family; it was a sick, twisted drama. I was the villain, destroying their codependent world. And then Olivia, in a dramatic display, ran headfirst into a wall, collapsing in a pool of blood. Daniel scooped her up, his eyes accusing me. My fault. Always my fault. I didn' t understand. How could I be blamed for her manipulative antics? How could he be so blind? This wasn't just about an affair; it was a decade of emotional suffocation. I was drowning, and he was too focused on her tears to notice. I picked up the divorce papers, the ones he hadn't received because Olivia had intercepted them. The true nature of their warped bond finally became horrifyingly clear. I drove away, toward a new city, a new life, finally ready to let go of the man who had loved duty more than me-or so I thought.

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