His Unwanted Wife, Her Reckless Life

His Unwanted Wife, Her Reckless Life

Gavin

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My life as a park ranger was dedicated to protecting the Fakahatchee Strand and its crown jewel, the priceless Ghost Orchid, a quiet passion my wife, Chloe, never seemed to grasp. Then, my day off was shattered by a call: the Super Ghost had been cruelly stolen. What I saw on the security footage twisted my stomach: it was Chloe, my wife, laughing and posing for selfies with her crypto-bro lover, Kyle, as they brutally sawed off the very orchid I swore to protect, all while she was supposedly on a "girls' trip" I had paid for. When I confronted her at the ranger station, she played the frantic victim, but her parents only launched into a furious tirade, blaming me for everything. The hospital confirmed my deepest fears when the ER doctor calmly announced Chloe's injury was from "strenuous physical activity" with Kyle, publicly shaming my wife and her accusatory parents. Yet, even from her hospital bed, Chloe and Kyle shamelessly posed for "recovery" selfies, attempting to monetize their disgrace, even trying to use a fake pregnancy to ensnare me. How could the woman I had once loved be so utterly devoid of empathy and so pathologically manipulative, trying to offload her lover's child onto me after everything? The audacity was a deep, sickening insult to every shred of decency I possessed. I was finally done being her victim. In a final, explosive confrontation, her unchecked rage boiled over, causing her to lash out and accidentally scald an innocent bystander-who devastatingly turned out to be her own brother's fiancée. That shocking incident was my undeniable cue to walk away, pursue the divorce, leave the toxic swamp of our past behind, and reclaim my peace, finally finding a life truly worth living far from her chaos.

Introduction

My life as a park ranger was dedicated to protecting the Fakahatchee Strand and its crown jewel, the priceless Ghost Orchid, a quiet passion my wife, Chloe, never seemed to grasp.

Then, my day off was shattered by a call: the Super Ghost had been cruelly stolen.

What I saw on the security footage twisted my stomach: it was Chloe, my wife, laughing and posing for selfies with her crypto-bro lover, Kyle, as they brutally sawed off the very orchid I swore to protect, all while she was supposedly on a "girls' trip" I had paid for.

When I confronted her at the ranger station, she played the frantic victim, but her parents only launched into a furious tirade, blaming me for everything.

The hospital confirmed my deepest fears when the ER doctor calmly announced Chloe's injury was from "strenuous physical activity" with Kyle, publicly shaming my wife and her accusatory parents.

Yet, even from her hospital bed, Chloe and Kyle shamelessly posed for "recovery" selfies, attempting to monetize their disgrace, even trying to use a fake pregnancy to ensnare me.

How could the woman I had once loved be so utterly devoid of empathy and so pathologically manipulative, trying to offload her lover's child onto me after everything?

The audacity was a deep, sickening insult to every shred of decency I possessed.

I was finally done being her victim.

In a final, explosive confrontation, her unchecked rage boiled over, causing her to lash out and accidentally scald an innocent bystander-who devastatingly turned out to be her own brother's fiancée.

That shocking incident was my undeniable cue to walk away, pursue the divorce, leave the toxic swamp of our past behind, and reclaim my peace, finally finding a life truly worth living far from her chaos.

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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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