No Longer Just a Wife

No Longer Just a Wife

Gavin

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I was Ava, the unsung architect behind InnovateNext, the tech empire my husband Ethan now helmed. For eight years, I' d been his devoted wife, sacrificing my groundbreaking career and protecting his fragile ego by taking the blame for our infertility. Our Connecticut home was a picture of domestic bliss, a testament to our seemingly perfect life. Then came the ping. A casual link from a friend, unfurling a private Instagram story, shattered everything. There was Ethan, supposedly headlining a conference in San Francisco, but geotagged in SoHo, New York. He stood beaming in a luxury baby boutique, arm around Chloe, a young intern, her belly unmistakably round. The look on his face – pure, unadulterated joy – was a stranger to me. My frantic call to him went to voicemail, followed by his immediate lie: "In a keynote session. Can't talk." Within hours, I faced Chloe in a lavish SoHo loft, perfectly tailored to the desires Ethan had always denied me. She smugly revealed their three-year affair, flaunting how Ethan mirrored "my Pinterest boards" for her, not me. Her final, cruel blow: "He feels sorry for you... A man needs a woman who can give him a family. He needs a woman who is soft, not one who is... capable." The profound betrayal was a punch to the gut, erasing a decade of loyalty and self-sacrifice. My heart didn't break; it turned to ash. All my years shielding his insecurities had been for a man who saw me as merely "capable," not a woman worthy of love or a family. But from that ash, something sharp and cold ignited. Revenge. I wasn't just leaving him. I was going to dismantle every empire he built on my back. The war had just begun.

Introduction

I was Ava, the unsung architect behind InnovateNext, the tech empire my husband Ethan now helmed.

For eight years, I' d been his devoted wife, sacrificing my groundbreaking career and protecting his fragile ego by taking the blame for our infertility.

Our Connecticut home was a picture of domestic bliss, a testament to our seemingly perfect life.

Then came the ping.

A casual link from a friend, unfurling a private Instagram story, shattered everything.

There was Ethan, supposedly headlining a conference in San Francisco, but geotagged in SoHo, New York.

He stood beaming in a luxury baby boutique, arm around Chloe, a young intern, her belly unmistakably round.

The look on his face – pure, unadulterated joy – was a stranger to me.

My frantic call to him went to voicemail, followed by his immediate lie: "In a keynote session. Can't talk."

Within hours, I faced Chloe in a lavish SoHo loft, perfectly tailored to the desires Ethan had always denied me.

She smugly revealed their three-year affair, flaunting how Ethan mirrored "my Pinterest boards" for her, not me.

Her final, cruel blow: "He feels sorry for you... A man needs a woman who can give him a family. He needs a woman who is soft, not one who is... capable."

The profound betrayal was a punch to the gut, erasing a decade of loyalty and self-sacrifice.

My heart didn't break; it turned to ash.

All my years shielding his insecurities had been for a man who saw me as merely "capable," not a woman worthy of love or a family.

But from that ash, something sharp and cold ignited.

Revenge.

I wasn't just leaving him.

I was going to dismantle every empire he built on my back.

The war had just begun.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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