He Played Her False: She Played Her Way Out

He Played Her False: She Played Her Way Out

Gavin

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My Juilliard cello degree was just background noise to the perfect smile I plastered on for my husband, Wesley' s, political fundraisers. For eight years, I was "Mrs. Wesley Lester," a pretty prop, while my priceless 18th-century cello sat in its case, my only sacred space, untouched by him. Then, he grabbed it-not the case, the actual instrument-and shoved it into the arms of Gabrielle, his childhood friend and campaign manager, without a single thought. I watched in horror as her lacquered nails scraped a searing line across its varnish. My husband, the man I sacrificed everything for, didn' t even flinch. He handed my soul to another woman as if it were a coat, then fussed over her while I stood there, burning from his complete dismissal. Later, burned by scalding coffee after he literally carried Gabrielle past my collapse, he still left me there, choosing her comfort over my agony. Then, with my hands bandaged into useless clubs, he demanded I donate my rare blood for Gabrielle, claiming her life was "on the line" for a fabricated public sympathy play. How could he ask this? How could he drain my life force to sustain his pathetic lie? Why was I, his wife, solely a biological resource, while Gabrielle, healthy as ever, lay next to me, sighing dramatically, soaking up his attention? When she intentionally ruined my late mentor' s irreplaceable autographed music, something snapped. And as chaos erupted, with a fire alarm blaring, I saw him choose her again, turning his back on me as I lay fallen on the marble floor. But a strong hand pulled me up-a lifeline. This time, I wouldn't just leave; I would reclaim everything he had tried to bury.

Introduction

My Juilliard cello degree was just background noise to the perfect smile I plastered on for my husband, Wesley' s, political fundraisers.

For eight years, I was "Mrs. Wesley Lester," a pretty prop, while my priceless 18th-century cello sat in its case, my only sacred space, untouched by him.

Then, he grabbed it-not the case, the actual instrument-and shoved it into the arms of Gabrielle, his childhood friend and campaign manager, without a single thought.

I watched in horror as her lacquered nails scraped a searing line across its varnish.

My husband, the man I sacrificed everything for, didn' t even flinch.

He handed my soul to another woman as if it were a coat, then fussed over her while I stood there, burning from his complete dismissal.

Later, burned by scalding coffee after he literally carried Gabrielle past my collapse, he still left me there, choosing her comfort over my agony.

Then, with my hands bandaged into useless clubs, he demanded I donate my rare blood for Gabrielle, claiming her life was "on the line" for a fabricated public sympathy play.

How could he ask this? How could he drain my life force to sustain his pathetic lie? Why was I, his wife, solely a biological resource, while Gabrielle, healthy as ever, lay next to me, sighing dramatically, soaking up his attention?

When she intentionally ruined my late mentor' s irreplaceable autographed music, something snapped.

And as chaos erupted, with a fire alarm blaring, I saw him choose her again, turning his back on me as I lay fallen on the marble floor.

But a strong hand pulled me up-a lifeline. This time, I wouldn't just leave; I would reclaim everything he had tried to bury.

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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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