Fifty Million Secrets: A Daughter's Revenge

Fifty Million Secrets: A Daughter's Revenge

Gavin

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Fifty million dollars. My cracked phone screen showed the winning Powerball numbers, confirming an impossible match. Twenty years a ghost, living paycheck to paycheck in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, and now, I held the key to a new life. But the buzz of my phone pulled me back to a familiar nightmare. It was Brenda, my "adoptive" mother, calling with fake sympathy, quickly turning to thinly veiled greed for money for my "father's" liver transplant. When I calmly told her I had won the lottery, her manufactured panic vanished, replaced by an ugly, avaricious gasp. My refusal to hand over a single cent unleashed a public tirade; soon, I was plastered across every news channel, dubbed the "Powerball Parasite," buying Birkin bags while my "dying dad" lay in a hospital bed. The world hated me, calling me a monster. Every comment was a venomous stab, every headline a condemnation. They didn't understand the icy calm behind my eyes, the cold precision of my actions. They saw heartless cruelty; I saw the meticulously laid foundation for a justice long overdue. Why would I invite such public scorn? Why play the villain? Because this wasn't some selfish whim. This was a calculated strike. And when the invitation came from 'The Dr. Grant Show' – Brenda's last desperate plea – I knew it was time for the world to see the truth. Not just my truth, but their truth.

Introduction

Fifty million dollars.

My cracked phone screen showed the winning Powerball numbers, confirming an impossible match.

Twenty years a ghost, living paycheck to paycheck in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, and now, I held the key to a new life.

But the buzz of my phone pulled me back to a familiar nightmare.

It was Brenda, my "adoptive" mother, calling with fake sympathy, quickly turning to thinly veiled greed for money for my "father's" liver transplant.

When I calmly told her I had won the lottery, her manufactured panic vanished, replaced by an ugly, avaricious gasp.

My refusal to hand over a single cent unleashed a public tirade; soon, I was plastered across every news channel, dubbed the "Powerball Parasite," buying Birkin bags while my "dying dad" lay in a hospital bed.

The world hated me, calling me a monster.

Every comment was a venomous stab, every headline a condemnation.

They didn't understand the icy calm behind my eyes, the cold precision of my actions.

They saw heartless cruelty; I saw the meticulously laid foundation for a justice long overdue.

Why would I invite such public scorn?

Why play the villain?

Because this wasn't some selfish whim.

This was a calculated strike.

And when the invitation came from 'The Dr. Grant Show' – Brenda's last desperate plea – I knew it was time for the world to see the truth.

Not just my truth, but their truth.

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When Love Turns to Ash

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

Gavin
4.8

My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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