The Betrayed Wife's Ultimate Play

The Betrayed Wife's Ultimate Play

Gavin

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My final prenatal appointment was today, but the drive turned into a nightmare. Now, I lay on a gurney, pregnant and bleeding, the world a blur of flashing lights. My husband, Matthew Scott, the golden boy ADA, was here, but his entire focus was on Sabrina Lawrence, his childhood friend, not me. "Get her out! She' s critical!" he screamed, as I rasped, "Matthew, the baby..." He didn' t even turn his head. A colleague dismissed my cries, telling me Matthew was stressed, Sabrina seriously injured. Just like my first life, this scene repeated. I had lived this betrayal before. Then, he pushed me off a gurney at the crash site, left me bleeding out on the asphalt while paramedics tended to Sabrina, believing his lie that I was hysterical and "faking" my injuries. My baby, our baby, was taken from me. The police officer later told me, "Your husband is a respected Assistant District Attorney. He's worried you're having a panic attack." They loaded Sabrina onto a stretcher, Matthew hovering, his voice tender for her, walking right past me as I lay trapped in agony. How could he do this? How could his colleagues and even strangers so readily believe his twisted narrative, abandoning a pregnant, dying woman because her powerful husband deemed her "dramatic"? Why was her life, her baby's life, less valuable than a man's reputation? The pain, the crushing realization of his utter depravity, merged with the chilling memory of his hands pushing me to my death in my previous life. But this time, I wouldn't be his victim. This time, as I lay there, abandoned and bleeding, the familiar darkness wasn't the end. It was the beginning of my reckoning. He thought I was just a placeholder? He was about to find out what happens when a placeholder decides to burn the whole goddamn game board to the ground.

Introduction

My final prenatal appointment was today, but the drive turned into a nightmare.

Now, I lay on a gurney, pregnant and bleeding, the world a blur of flashing lights. My husband, Matthew Scott, the golden boy ADA, was here, but his entire focus was on Sabrina Lawrence, his childhood friend, not me.

"Get her out! She' s critical!" he screamed, as I rasped, "Matthew, the baby..."

He didn' t even turn his head. A colleague dismissed my cries, telling me Matthew was stressed, Sabrina seriously injured. Just like my first life, this scene repeated. I had lived this betrayal before.

Then, he pushed me off a gurney at the crash site, left me bleeding out on the asphalt while paramedics tended to Sabrina, believing his lie that I was hysterical and "faking" my injuries. My baby, our baby, was taken from me.

The police officer later told me, "Your husband is a respected Assistant District Attorney. He's worried you're having a panic attack."

They loaded Sabrina onto a stretcher, Matthew hovering, his voice tender for her, walking right past me as I lay trapped in agony.

How could he do this?

How could his colleagues and even strangers so readily believe his twisted narrative, abandoning a pregnant, dying woman because her powerful husband deemed her "dramatic"?

Why was her life, her baby's life, less valuable than a man's reputation? The pain, the crushing realization of his utter depravity, merged with the chilling memory of his hands pushing me to my death in my previous life.

But this time, I wouldn't be his victim.

This time, as I lay there, abandoned and bleeding, the familiar darkness wasn't the end. It was the beginning of my reckoning. He thought I was just a placeholder? He was about to find out what happens when a placeholder decides to burn the whole goddamn game board to the ground.

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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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