My North Star Rising

My North Star Rising

Gavin

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My dream of studying at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris was finally within reach, a Golden Whisk nomination sparkling on my laptop screen. My life as a rising pastry chef was just beginning. And then, my phone buzzed. It was Ethan, my charming boyfriend, the heir to the prestigious Vance Family Vineyard. His voice was wrecked, thin and cracking as he pleaded, "Mia, we're going to lose everything. The vineyard is gone. I'm ruined." My heart squeezed, imagining his family's legacy in Napa Valley crumbling. Without a second thought, I clicked off my scholarship application. "I'm coming, Ethan," I promised, "On the next flight to California." For three years, I buried my pastry dreams under layers of grease and exhaustion, flipping burgers at Dusty' s Diner, a greasy spoon in a dusty Central Valley town. Every spare cent went into a battered shoebox, saving fifty thousand dollars to save his "family legacy." Ethan constantly complained about our "dump" rental and the "disgusting" food, but I ignored him, focused on our goal. My sacrifice was complete when I finally deposited the last bundle of cash in the bank. But then, I heard it: a news segment blaring about "dynamic young investor Ethan Vance" and his thriving Napa winery, his acquisition of a tech startup, and even his personal interest in "the popular Dusty's Diner." My blood ran cold, but the final blow came from Ethan's unwitting pocket-dial. "The full fifty K," his smug voice chuckled. "That diner girl? Still slaving away for me. Bless her little cotton socks. Enough for the down payment on that new Porsche 911. And Brittany will love that little diamond thing I saw." Not for a vineyard. Not for us. For a car. For another woman. My breath hitched, the world tilted. Every word, every sacrifice, every hopeful dream of a shared future shattered into a million pieces. The humiliation was a physical ache. As he walked into the diner, feigning concern, I didn't cry. Instead, I calmly pulled out my checkbook. It was time for him to pay for his lies.

Introduction

My dream of studying at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris was finally within reach, a Golden Whisk nomination sparkling on my laptop screen. My life as a rising pastry chef was just beginning. And then, my phone buzzed. It was Ethan, my charming boyfriend, the heir to the prestigious Vance Family Vineyard.

His voice was wrecked, thin and cracking as he pleaded, "Mia, we're going to lose everything. The vineyard is gone. I'm ruined." My heart squeezed, imagining his family's legacy in Napa Valley crumbling. Without a second thought, I clicked off my scholarship application. "I'm coming, Ethan," I promised, "On the next flight to California."

For three years, I buried my pastry dreams under layers of grease and exhaustion, flipping burgers at Dusty' s Diner, a greasy spoon in a dusty Central Valley town. Every spare cent went into a battered shoebox, saving fifty thousand dollars to save his "family legacy." Ethan constantly complained about our "dump" rental and the "disgusting" food, but I ignored him, focused on our goal. My sacrifice was complete when I finally deposited the last bundle of cash in the bank.

But then, I heard it: a news segment blaring about "dynamic young investor Ethan Vance" and his thriving Napa winery, his acquisition of a tech startup, and even his personal interest in "the popular Dusty's Diner." My blood ran cold, but the final blow came from Ethan's unwitting pocket-dial. "The full fifty K," his smug voice chuckled. "That diner girl? Still slaving away for me. Bless her little cotton socks. Enough for the down payment on that new Porsche 911. And Brittany will love that little diamond thing I saw." Not for a vineyard. Not for us. For a car. For another woman.

My breath hitched, the world tilted. Every word, every sacrifice, every hopeful dream of a shared future shattered into a million pieces. The humiliation was a physical ache. As he walked into the diner, feigning concern, I didn't cry. Instead, I calmly pulled out my checkbook. It was time for him to pay for his lies.

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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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