No More Tears: Her Empire of Justice

No More Tears: Her Empire of Justice

Gavin

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The harsh fluorescent lights hummed as my son, Leo, struggled for breath, his skin a terrifying blue. "Anaphylactic shock," the doctor declared, holding the only available auto-injector – our son's last hope. But then, my husband, Matthew, burst in, dragging his whimpering mistress, Tara Lawrence, who claimed she had a minor food reaction. He demanded the life-saving epipen be given to her, shoving me aside, dismissing Leo's critical state as mere "drama." I watched in cold horror as my child's only chance was wasted, his tiny gasps fading, my world crumbling around me. His callous disregard continued as he mocked Leo's death, spilling his ashes, then locking me in the basement, calling me the monster, while Tara gloated about her pregnancy with his child. How could the man I married abandon our dying son, desecrate his memory, then imprison me? But their cruel victory was short-lived; I had a call to make, and a cold, hard resolve to show them what a true monster looked like.

Introduction

The harsh fluorescent lights hummed as my son, Leo, struggled for breath, his skin a terrifying blue.

"Anaphylactic shock," the doctor declared, holding the only available auto-injector – our son's last hope.

But then, my husband, Matthew, burst in, dragging his whimpering mistress, Tara Lawrence, who claimed she had a minor food reaction.

He demanded the life-saving epipen be given to her, shoving me aside, dismissing Leo's critical state as mere "drama."

I watched in cold horror as my child's only chance was wasted, his tiny gasps fading, my world crumbling around me.

His callous disregard continued as he mocked Leo's death, spilling his ashes, then locking me in the basement, calling me the monster, while Tara gloated about her pregnancy with his child.

How could the man I married abandon our dying son, desecrate his memory, then imprison me?

But their cruel victory was short-lived; I had a call to make, and a cold, hard resolve to show them what a true monster looked like.

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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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