My Sacred Reckoning

Name: My Sacred Reckoning
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Gavin

Romance | Completed

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For years, I was Gabrielle Johns: a dedicated librarian in our sleepy Utah town, and the devout wife of Matthew Scott, a man cherished by our church. My deepest prayer was for children, and after embracing IVF and discovering I was having quadruplets, I truly believed God had answered my prayers fourfold. My brutal pregnancy was a testament to my faith, and Matthew, my "devoted" husband, orchestrated prayer circles, praising my suffering as a mother's beautiful love. Then, six months in, at a church potluck, my world shattered. Hiding in the garden, I overheard Matthew and two elders. Matthew, the man I loved, calmly explained how I was merely a "vessel," a "righteous sacrifice" carrying children for his mistress, his sister, his old friend, and his deceased fiancée's parents. He chuckled, deeming me "so trusting," "so naive," for believing these impossible pregnancies were ours. My casserole dish crashed, mirroring the implosion within me. Each kick from inside became a violation, a chilling reminder of his cold deception. I stumbled home, the truth a gaping wound, forced to play the loving wife while a cold rage hardened my core. He' d not only used my infertility, he' d caused it, poisoning me for years with "supplements" to destroy my eggs. My love incinerated, replaced by a singular, burning desire. The devout, forgiving Gabrielle died that night. The woman who remained knew one thing with absolute certainty: She wanted revenge. She would make Matthew pay, not with quick death, but with a living hell far worse.

Betrayal Revenge Pregnancy Divorce Kickass Heroine

Chapter 10

11-03 17:07

Introduction

For years, I was Gabrielle Johns: a dedicated librarian in our sleepy Utah town, and the devout wife of Matthew Scott, a man cherished by our church.

My deepest prayer was for children, and after embracing IVF and discovering I was having quadruplets, I truly believed God had answered my prayers fourfold.

My brutal pregnancy was a testament to my faith, and Matthew, my "devoted" husband, orchestrated prayer circles, praising my suffering as a mother's beautiful love.

Then, six months in, at a church potluck, my world shattered.

Hiding in the garden, I overheard Matthew and two elders.

Matthew, the man I loved, calmly explained how I was merely a "vessel," a "righteous sacrifice" carrying children for his mistress, his sister, his old friend, and his deceased fiancée's parents.

He chuckled, deeming me "so trusting," "so naive," for believing these impossible pregnancies were ours.

My casserole dish crashed, mirroring the implosion within me. Each kick from inside became a violation, a chilling reminder of his cold deception.

I stumbled home, the truth a gaping wound, forced to play the loving wife while a cold rage hardened my core.

He' d not only used my infertility, he' d caused it, poisoning me for years with "supplements" to destroy my eggs.

My love incinerated, replaced by a singular, burning desire.

The devout, forgiving Gabrielle died that night.

The woman who remained knew one thing with absolute certainty: She wanted revenge. She would make Matthew pay, not with quick death, but with a living hell far worse.