From ATM to Avalanche: Sarah's Sweet Revenge

From ATM to Avalanche: Sarah's Sweet Revenge

Gavin

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I was Sarah, the Silicon Valley project manager, the "walking ATM" for my family for twenty years. When I won the $150 million Powerball, all I wanted was to finally quit, go home, and find some peace. I craved my family' s warmth and believed Omaha was my escape-my real home. But the moment I told my mom I was coming home permanently, her first concern wasn' t my well-being, but "what about the money?" When I arrived for my nephew' s graduation, the house I had paid for no longer felt like mine. My father carved me the burnt brisket ends I hated, while my brother-in-law snorted that their house was "full." My nephew demanded an F-150, oblivious to my struggle. And my mother admitted they' d sold my childhood belongings for "a couple hundred bucks." Then came the true horror. They had turned my childhood room into a "man cave" and rented out the condo I' d bought as an investment, claiming the money went to "living expenses." When I questioned how they could spend that much beyond the six figures I already sent annually, my father roared, called me an "ungrateful spinster," and then slapped me across the face, ordering me out of the house I had bought. How could the family I had sacrificed everything for, the people I had supported for two decades, betray me with such calculating greed and cruelty? How could they claim ownership of a life I had so painstakingly built and funded, only to cast me aside the moment my perceived utility waned? Were they truly this heartless, or was there some twisted logic I was missing? As I drove away, my face stinging, a text from my cousin confirmed the final, sickening lie: my nephew' s entire scholarship and university story was a sham, a desperate ploy for more money. The sadness evaporated, replaced by a cold fire. They wanted my money? Fine. But they would pay a far steeper price for their deception. My revenge was just beginning.

Introduction

I was Sarah, the Silicon Valley project manager, the "walking ATM" for my family for twenty years. When I won the $150 million Powerball, all I wanted was to finally quit, go home, and find some peace. I craved my family' s warmth and believed Omaha was my escape-my real home.

But the moment I told my mom I was coming home permanently, her first concern wasn' t my well-being, but "what about the money?"

When I arrived for my nephew' s graduation, the house I had paid for no longer felt like mine. My father carved me the burnt brisket ends I hated, while my brother-in-law snorted that their house was "full."

My nephew demanded an F-150, oblivious to my struggle. And my mother admitted they' d sold my childhood belongings for "a couple hundred bucks."

Then came the true horror.

They had turned my childhood room into a "man cave" and rented out the condo I' d bought as an investment, claiming the money went to "living expenses."

When I questioned how they could spend that much beyond the six figures I already sent annually, my father roared, called me an "ungrateful spinster," and then slapped me across the face, ordering me out of the house I had bought.

How could the family I had sacrificed everything for, the people I had supported for two decades, betray me with such calculating greed and cruelty?

How could they claim ownership of a life I had so painstakingly built and funded, only to cast me aside the moment my perceived utility waned?

Were they truly this heartless, or was there some twisted logic I was missing?

As I drove away, my face stinging, a text from my cousin confirmed the final, sickening lie: my nephew' s entire scholarship and university story was a sham, a desperate ploy for more money.

The sadness evaporated, replaced by a cold fire. They wanted my money?

Fine. But they would pay a far steeper price for their deception. My revenge was just beginning.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
4.5

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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