The Billionaire's Calculated Comeback

The Billionaire's Calculated Comeback

Gavin

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The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER flickered over Sylvia' s pale face, her party dress torn, mascara smudged. She was my vibrant, wild fiancée-to-be, now fragile and broken from a "roofie" incident. I knelt at her gurney, proposing in that sterile room, promising to be her anchor, to always keep her safe. My life as a simple craft brewery manager felt real with her, far from the corporate schemes of my wealthy family. But the night before our engagement party, rushing to find her, I found her apartment door slightly ajar. Then I heard it: "Wasn't the fake roofie stunt enough? This isn't fair to Caleb!" and her callous response, "Caleb's just too... vanilla. I have needs." The 'roofie'-a performance. My devotion, my comfort, my entire world built on her calculated lie for "content." The woman I loved, mocked me, played me for a fool, shamelessly indulging in an illicit party with her sleazy manager. Every word of sincerity, every act of tenderness I gave her, was met with cold, manipulative mockery. How could the woman I was ready to marry be so utterly fake, so greedily hollow, so ruthlessly cruel? My world collapsed, but in the ruins, a new, chilling clarity emerged. I pulled out my phone, scrolled past her name, and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a year. "Dad. About that merger... I'm in." She thought she was playing games with a vanilla brewery manager. She had no idea she was messing with Caleb Wright, the heir to Wright Oil. The game was far from over. It had just begun.

Introduction

The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER flickered over Sylvia' s pale face, her party dress torn, mascara smudged.

She was my vibrant, wild fiancée-to-be, now fragile and broken from a "roofie" incident.

I knelt at her gurney, proposing in that sterile room, promising to be her anchor, to always keep her safe.

My life as a simple craft brewery manager felt real with her, far from the corporate schemes of my wealthy family.

But the night before our engagement party, rushing to find her, I found her apartment door slightly ajar.

Then I heard it: "Wasn't the fake roofie stunt enough? This isn't fair to Caleb!" and her callous response, "Caleb's just too... vanilla. I have needs."

The 'roofie'-a performance. My devotion, my comfort, my entire world built on her calculated lie for "content."

The woman I loved, mocked me, played me for a fool, shamelessly indulging in an illicit party with her sleazy manager.

Every word of sincerity, every act of tenderness I gave her, was met with cold, manipulative mockery.

How could the woman I was ready to marry be so utterly fake, so greedily hollow, so ruthlessly cruel?

My world collapsed, but in the ruins, a new, chilling clarity emerged.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled past her name, and dialed a number I hadn't touched in a year.

"Dad. About that merger... I'm in."

She thought she was playing games with a vanilla brewery manager. She had no idea she was messing with Caleb Wright, the heir to Wright Oil.

The game was far from over. It had just begun.

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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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