His Masterpiece of Revenge

His Masterpiece of Revenge

Gavin

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The smell of freshly painted cherry-red and victory filled my garage. My venture capital firm might build empires, but this 1969 Mustang Mach 1 was my anniversary gift to myself-a reminder of where I came from. For my wife, Nicole, I' d acquired a fortune-costing, reclusive artist' s painting, a bridge between our worlds. But as I reached for my phone, a notification flashed: Instagram. Ryan Chavez, Nicole' s latest art foundation project, a kid with "mediocre talent." The air froze in my lungs. There, in his studio, hung my painting, framed by his smug pose and a caption thanking Nicole for the "life-changing gift." I called her. Her voice, smooth as silk, turned dismissive. "It' s just a painting. He needed the encouragement. It' s for the good of the foundation." She hung up, leaving me standing there, the symbol of us casually given away. Loyalty, respect-the foundations of my life-shattered. She said it was "just a painting." Fine. Then her favorite sculpture, my first anniversary gift to her, was "just a sculpture" too, as I donated it to a rival museum. Her rage was immediate, venomous. But what truly sealed it was seeing her with Ryan on her arm at the gala, publicly declaring I didn't matter. This wasn't just about a painting or a sculpture. This was war. She had underestimated me. I knew her secrets, her family's weaknesses. And I was about to use every single one of them.

Introduction

The smell of freshly painted cherry-red and victory filled my garage. My venture capital firm might build empires, but this 1969 Mustang Mach 1 was my anniversary gift to myself-a reminder of where I came from.

For my wife, Nicole, I' d acquired a fortune-costing, reclusive artist' s painting, a bridge between our worlds.

But as I reached for my phone, a notification flashed: Instagram. Ryan Chavez, Nicole' s latest art foundation project, a kid with "mediocre talent." The air froze in my lungs.

There, in his studio, hung my painting, framed by his smug pose and a caption thanking Nicole for the "life-changing gift."

I called her. Her voice, smooth as silk, turned dismissive. "It' s just a painting. He needed the encouragement. It' s for the good of the foundation." She hung up, leaving me standing there, the symbol of us casually given away.

Loyalty, respect-the foundations of my life-shattered.

She said it was "just a painting." Fine. Then her favorite sculpture, my first anniversary gift to her, was "just a sculpture" too, as I donated it to a rival museum.

Her rage was immediate, venomous. But what truly sealed it was seeing her with Ryan on her arm at the gala, publicly declaring I didn't matter.

This wasn't just about a painting or a sculpture. This was war. She had underestimated me.

I knew her secrets, her family's weaknesses. And I was about to use every single one of them.

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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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