The Unwanted Blessing

The Unwanted Blessing

Gavin

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I was eight, maybe nine, when my father branded me "bad luck." Exiled from the Miller empire, I grew up with Elara in the quiet Ozarks, who saw a light in me, saying "things grow better in the sunshine." Ten years later, a thick, gold-embossed envelope arrived, pulling Sadie back. It was a summons to my younger brother Ethan's 21st birthday gala, the favored heir. "Your father expects your attendance," the note commanded, offering no welcome. Richard Miller met me with arctic eyes, scanning my simple clothes. Ethan, the spoiled golden child, sneered, "Look what the cat dragged in from the sticks." The chilling truth emerged: this wasn't a reunion, but a formal disinheritance. At the glittering country club, I was publicly mocked as a "charity case," old wounds tearing open. Ethan grinned, shoving legal documents at me: "We' re making it official." My father, via phone, clipped: "Sign the papers and be done with it." The familiar weight of being blamed, of inherent flaw, pressed down heavily. For years, I' d believed I was the source of Miller's "bad luck"-fender benders, fires-all starting, Dad said, at my birth. This cruel dismissal felt final, confirming every unwanted memory. But clutching Elara' s smooth river stone, a different truth settled. "Luck runs in funny streams," I told Ethan, "You might be diverting more than you think." With a strange calm, I signed "Sarah Miller" for the last time. The moment my pen lifted, a speaker crackled and died, and chaos rippled instantly. Ethan' s prized car smashed, company scandals erupted, credit lines froze. The Miller empire, built on sand and shortcuts, was finally crumbling. Some ties, once broken, unleash far more than just freedom.

Introduction

I was eight, maybe nine, when my father branded me "bad luck."

Exiled from the Miller empire, I grew up with Elara in the quiet Ozarks, who saw a light in me, saying "things grow better in the sunshine."

Ten years later, a thick, gold-embossed envelope arrived, pulling Sadie back.

It was a summons to my younger brother Ethan's 21st birthday gala, the favored heir.

"Your father expects your attendance," the note commanded, offering no welcome.

Richard Miller met me with arctic eyes, scanning my simple clothes.

Ethan, the spoiled golden child, sneered, "Look what the cat dragged in from the sticks."

The chilling truth emerged: this wasn't a reunion, but a formal disinheritance.

At the glittering country club, I was publicly mocked as a "charity case," old wounds tearing open.

Ethan grinned, shoving legal documents at me: "We' re making it official."

My father, via phone, clipped: "Sign the papers and be done with it."

The familiar weight of being blamed, of inherent flaw, pressed down heavily.

For years, I' d believed I was the source of Miller's "bad luck"-fender benders, fires-all starting, Dad said, at my birth.

This cruel dismissal felt final, confirming every unwanted memory.

But clutching Elara' s smooth river stone, a different truth settled.

"Luck runs in funny streams," I told Ethan, "You might be diverting more than you think."

With a strange calm, I signed "Sarah Miller" for the last time.

The moment my pen lifted, a speaker crackled and died, and chaos rippled instantly.

Ethan' s prized car smashed, company scandals erupted, credit lines froze.

The Miller empire, built on sand and shortcuts, was finally crumbling.

Some ties, once broken, unleash far more than just freedom.

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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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