The Surrogate's Secret: A Mother's Vengeance

The Surrogate's Secret: A Mother's Vengeance

Gavin

5.0
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My phone buzzed with the perfectly captured picture: my husband, Andrew, beaming with the surrogate and their newborn, a son I' d paid a fortune to bring into this world. I typed a lie: "He's beautiful, I'm so happy for us." I was a spectator to my own life, my body a continuous failure after six miscarriages, each a tiny ghost in our silent house. Then, the call came: my eight-year-old niece, Madisyn, was in a terrible accident and needed B-negative blood-my rare type. But when I offered to donate, Andrew, his family, and even his wife, panicked, refusing my help. The doctor's chilling whisper shattered my world: "The resemblance is uncanny... Madisyn is your daughter, isn' t she?" My first "miscarriage" wasn't a miscarriage; it was a kidnappingorchestrated by my husband. Andrew confessed, not with remorse, but with monstrous casualness: he' d given away our child to his infertile brother to save their "family line." He even dared to gaslight me, blaming my grief and rage for ruining the "perfect family" he' d built with another woman. When I confronted him again, he shoved me, leaving me burned and abandoned on the floor after Madisyn staged a horrifying attack on the new baby and framed me. My heart, already shattered, turned to ice. Andrew would never believe me; he didn't want to. He had decided long ago who I was-the "unhinged wife"-and nothing I said would change his narrative. Screaming inside, I signed the divorce papers, picked up the pieces of my life, smashed the symbols of our shared past, and called the most ruthless lawyer on the East Coast. This wasn't just a divorce; it was a war. I was getting my daughter back, and I was going to make him pay for every stolen child.

Introduction

My phone buzzed with the perfectly captured picture: my husband, Andrew, beaming with the surrogate and their newborn, a son I' d paid a fortune to bring into this world.

I typed a lie: "He's beautiful, I'm so happy for us."

I was a spectator to my own life, my body a continuous failure after six miscarriages, each a tiny ghost in our silent house.

Then, the call came: my eight-year-old niece, Madisyn, was in a terrible accident and needed B-negative blood-my rare type.

But when I offered to donate, Andrew, his family, and even his wife, panicked, refusing my help.

The doctor's chilling whisper shattered my world: "The resemblance is uncanny... Madisyn is your daughter, isn' t she?"

My first "miscarriage" wasn't a miscarriage; it was a kidnappingorchestrated by my husband.

Andrew confessed, not with remorse, but with monstrous casualness: he' d given away our child to his infertile brother to save their "family line."

He even dared to gaslight me, blaming my grief and rage for ruining the "perfect family" he' d built with another woman.

When I confronted him again, he shoved me, leaving me burned and abandoned on the floor after Madisyn staged a horrifying attack on the new baby and framed me.

My heart, already shattered, turned to ice.

Andrew would never believe me; he didn't want to. He had decided long ago who I was-the "unhinged wife"-and nothing I said would change his narrative.

Screaming inside, I signed the divorce papers, picked up the pieces of my life, smashed the symbols of our shared past, and called the most ruthless lawyer on the East Coast.

This wasn't just a divorce; it was a war. I was getting my daughter back, and I was going to make him pay for every stolen child.

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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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