Beneath The Surface: A Family's Secret

Beneath The Surface: A Family's Secret

Gavin

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My life was a laundry cycle of servitude. A straight-A student, yet at home, I was just the maid, my younger brother Kevin' s muddy jersey a constant reminder. My parents, Karen and Rick, lived through his fleeting athletic glories, barely acknowledging my existence. Then came the Spring Break survivalist trip to the Nevada desert, Kevin's latest TikTok obsession, eagerly championed by my parents. I warned them about the aggressive wildlife, the missing hikers, but my mother's hand found my cheek, silencing me. Deep in the desert, our SUV got stuck, and as darkness fell, a chilling tap on my window turned our ill-fated adventure into a nightmare. A starving mountain lion shattered the glass, its claws tearing into my arm. But the real terror wasn't the beast; it was the cold calculation in my mother's eyes. With a sickening shove, Karen pushed me out of the car, right into the lion's path. The door slammed shut, the lock clicked, and my last sight was their taillights speeding away, leaving me for dead in the dark. Their relief was palpable, and I died knowing they abandoned me without a second thought. I was consumed by the grit of the sand, the tearing pain, the animal' s hot breath, but most of all, the chilling indifference of my own family. How could they? How could my own mother make such a conscious, fatal decision to discard me? Why was I always the problem they needed to eliminate, the buzzkill they had to silence? Then, the familiar smell of bleach filled my lungs. I gasped, eyes flying open, standing in the laundry room, Kevin' s muddy jersey in my hand. I was back, and this time, the cold, hard block settling in my chest wasn't sorrow or fear, but a thirst for revenge. Not this time. This time, they would pay.

Introduction

My life was a laundry cycle of servitude.

A straight-A student, yet at home, I was just the maid, my younger brother Kevin' s muddy jersey a constant reminder.

My parents, Karen and Rick, lived through his fleeting athletic glories, barely acknowledging my existence.

Then came the Spring Break survivalist trip to the Nevada desert, Kevin's latest TikTok obsession, eagerly championed by my parents.

I warned them about the aggressive wildlife, the missing hikers, but my mother's hand found my cheek, silencing me.

Deep in the desert, our SUV got stuck, and as darkness fell, a chilling tap on my window turned our ill-fated adventure into a nightmare.

A starving mountain lion shattered the glass, its claws tearing into my arm.

But the real terror wasn't the beast; it was the cold calculation in my mother's eyes.

With a sickening shove, Karen pushed me out of the car, right into the lion's path.

The door slammed shut, the lock clicked, and my last sight was their taillights speeding away, leaving me for dead in the dark.

Their relief was palpable, and I died knowing they abandoned me without a second thought.

I was consumed by the grit of the sand, the tearing pain, the animal' s hot breath, but most of all, the chilling indifference of my own family.

How could they? How could my own mother make such a conscious, fatal decision to discard me?

Why was I always the problem they needed to eliminate, the buzzkill they had to silence?

Then, the familiar smell of bleach filled my lungs.

I gasped, eyes flying open, standing in the laundry room, Kevin' s muddy jersey in my hand.

I was back, and this time, the cold, hard block settling in my chest wasn't sorrow or fear, but a thirst for revenge.

Not this time. This time, they would pay.

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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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