Second Chance at Yale

Second Chance at Yale

Gavin

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My life was a perfect fairytale, or so I thought. Born into old money, I was the golden girl who married Yale University's campus prince, Liam Vanderbilt. Two years into our blissful marriage, I quit my job, ready to start the family we'd always dreamed of. Then, Liam announced a year-long project in London, barely coming home to pack. I missed him terribly, barraging him with texts, but only met with silence. My best friend, Chloe, delivered the crushing news: Liam' s old flame, Serena Dubois, was back from Paris and working in his London office. Then Liam' s assistant confirmed: the new Vice President, familiar with Europe, accompanied him – a woman. My worst fears confirmed, I lay in bed, the realization hitting me like a punch: Liam's private Instagram account, a shrine to a girl from his prep school, Serena. He didn't just leave, he left for his first love, the jet named after me presumably carrying her. I was suffering through fertility treatments, waiting for him, while he was with her. My dream of a baby, our perfect life, shattered by his betrayal. Why marry me if he only truly loved her? Then I woke up, sweating, to a message from Liam. My desperate "I want a divorce" text received only one two-word response: "Fine." He didn't beg, he didn't explain. He just agreed. The only jet available to follow him to London was 'The Hailey,' the one he gifted me. Then I collapsed. When I opened my eyes, I was back on Yale's Old Campus, the day I first tried to ask Liam out. He stood before me, arrogant and young, wearing the Rolex I knew was Serena' s gift. I remembered his cutting rejection from my past life, and the thought of reliving that humiliation made me sick. But this time, I wouldn't let him break me. This time, I was getting off this rollercoaster before it even started.

Introduction

My life was a perfect fairytale, or so I thought.

Born into old money, I was the golden girl who married Yale University's campus prince, Liam Vanderbilt.

Two years into our blissful marriage, I quit my job, ready to start the family we'd always dreamed of.

Then, Liam announced a year-long project in London, barely coming home to pack.

I missed him terribly, barraging him with texts, but only met with silence.

My best friend, Chloe, delivered the crushing news: Liam' s old flame, Serena Dubois, was back from Paris and working in his London office.

Then Liam' s assistant confirmed: the new Vice President, familiar with Europe, accompanied him – a woman.

My worst fears confirmed, I lay in bed, the realization hitting me like a punch: Liam's private Instagram account, a shrine to a girl from his prep school, Serena.

He didn't just leave, he left for his first love, the jet named after me presumably carrying her.

I was suffering through fertility treatments, waiting for him, while he was with her.

My dream of a baby, our perfect life, shattered by his betrayal.

Why marry me if he only truly loved her?

Then I woke up, sweating, to a message from Liam.

My desperate "I want a divorce" text received only one two-word response: "Fine."

He didn't beg, he didn't explain.

He just agreed.

The only jet available to follow him to London was 'The Hailey,' the one he gifted me.

Then I collapsed.

When I opened my eyes, I was back on Yale's Old Campus, the day I first tried to ask Liam out.

He stood before me, arrogant and young, wearing the Rolex I knew was Serena' s gift.

I remembered his cutting rejection from my past life, and the thought of reliving that humiliation made me sick.

But this time, I wouldn't let him break me.

This time, I was getting off this rollercoaster before it even started.

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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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