Called by the Token: Her True Mate

Called by the Token: Her True Mate

Gavin

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The fluorescent hum of the county clerk's office was the soundtrack to my defiance. I clutched the pen, ready to marry Liam Thorne, a man I' d run seven days and suppressed a blood-bound token for, all to rewrite a past that still haunted my reborn soul. Before the ink could touch the paper, Liam snatched the license. Rip. My heart stopped. "I have to marry Chloe first," he said, his words echoing the betrayal I remembered from a lifetime ago. He spoke of a week, of saving Chloe' s reputation, but I remembered years in a damp root cellar, the loss of our children. My blood-bound token throbbed as his guards abducted me, dragging me to his coastal estate. There, Chloe, the cousin whose manipulations haunted my first life, paraded in my wedding gown, her triumph chilling. With a staged cry and a splash of fake blood, she framed me. Liam, blinded by her fake tears, roared, "Take her to the old root cellar!" My nightmare was real again. The sting of his slap echoed the cruelty of a past he seemed to have forgotten, but I hadn't. Had he learned nothing? Did he truly believe a week could erase my agony, our lost children, the years in that dark cellar? The blood-bound token, suppressed for so long, now pulsed with a furious, undeniable call. As the heavy door of that dreaded root cellar slammed shut, I finally let go. No more running. No more pretending. My forced apology was a lie, a means to an end. It was time for my people to find me. It was time to go home. And this time, I wouldn't be marrying him. I was going home to Elijah.

Introduction

The fluorescent hum of the county clerk's office was the soundtrack to my defiance.

I clutched the pen, ready to marry Liam Thorne, a man I' d run seven days and suppressed a blood-bound token for, all to rewrite a past that still haunted my reborn soul.

Before the ink could touch the paper, Liam snatched the license.

Rip.

My heart stopped.

"I have to marry Chloe first," he said, his words echoing the betrayal I remembered from a lifetime ago.

He spoke of a week, of saving Chloe' s reputation, but I remembered years in a damp root cellar, the loss of our children.

My blood-bound token throbbed as his guards abducted me, dragging me to his coastal estate.

There, Chloe, the cousin whose manipulations haunted my first life, paraded in my wedding gown, her triumph chilling.

With a staged cry and a splash of fake blood, she framed me.

Liam, blinded by her fake tears, roared, "Take her to the old root cellar!"

My nightmare was real again.

The sting of his slap echoed the cruelty of a past he seemed to have forgotten, but I hadn't.

Had he learned nothing?

Did he truly believe a week could erase my agony, our lost children, the years in that dark cellar?

The blood-bound token, suppressed for so long, now pulsed with a furious, undeniable call.

As the heavy door of that dreaded root cellar slammed shut, I finally let go.

No more running.

No more pretending.

My forced apology was a lie, a means to an end.

It was time for my people to find me.

It was time to go home.

And this time, I wouldn't be marrying him.

I was going home to Elijah.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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