A Year To Find Forever

A Year To Find Forever

Gavin

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My husband, Ethan, had been by my side for ten years, treating me with unwavering devotion, a quiet chef supporting my empire. I was Jocelyn Anderson, COO of a hospitality giant, a Wharton graduate, and frankly, too busy to notice. I saw him as steady, uncomplicated-a strategic move to keep my family off my back, nothing more. Then, he served me divorce papers. Not with a shout, but with a flat, hollow voice that cut deeper than any anger. He'd found an old email, a careless confession I'd sent before our wedding: I' d called him "safe," a "placeholder." He was gone. His things vanished from our silent condo, his number blocked. My family sneered, relieved the "gold-digger" was gone. But for the first time, seeing his absence, hearing their cruel words, I felt a panic I couldn't explain. I saw the empty space he left, the quiet support I'd taken for granted. A friend' s blunt truth hit me: "You'll wear him out." And I had. He wasn't just a husband; he was the anchor I never knew I needed. Now, he was free, pursuing his dreams without me. The thought alone was a punch to the gut. I chased him across the country, from Wyoming to Seattle, desperate to apologize, to explain, to salvage what I finally realized was precious. But he was cold, detached, a stranger. "You're just not used to me being gone," he said. "This isn' t love, it' s habit." Then came his ultimate challenge: "Hike the Skyline Trail to Panorama Point in six hours. If you make it, we' ll talk." I stood at the mountain's base, in designer loafers and a business suit, facing the impossible. I accepted.

Introduction

My husband, Ethan, had been by my side for ten years, treating me with unwavering devotion, a quiet chef supporting my empire.

I was Jocelyn Anderson, COO of a hospitality giant, a Wharton graduate, and frankly, too busy to notice. I saw him as steady, uncomplicated-a strategic move to keep my family off my back, nothing more.

Then, he served me divorce papers. Not with a shout, but with a flat, hollow voice that cut deeper than any anger. He'd found an old email, a careless confession I'd sent before our wedding: I' d called him "safe," a "placeholder."

He was gone.

His things vanished from our silent condo, his number blocked. My family sneered, relieved the "gold-digger" was gone. But for the first time, seeing his absence, hearing their cruel words, I felt a panic I couldn't explain. I saw the empty space he left, the quiet support I'd taken for granted.

A friend' s blunt truth hit me: "You'll wear him out."

And I had. He wasn't just a husband; he was the anchor I never knew I needed. Now, he was free, pursuing his dreams without me. The thought alone was a punch to the gut.

I chased him across the country, from Wyoming to Seattle, desperate to apologize, to explain, to salvage what I finally realized was precious. But he was cold, detached, a stranger.

"You're just not used to me being gone," he said. "This isn' t love, it' s habit."

Then came his ultimate challenge: "Hike the Skyline Trail to Panorama Point in six hours.

If you make it, we' ll talk." I stood at the mountain's base, in designer loafers and a business suit, facing the impossible. I accepted.

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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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