Swamp Fire: A Trucker's Justice

Swamp Fire: A Trucker's Justice

Gavin

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I pushed my rig across forty-eight states for a year, eating at truck stops and sleeping in the cab, all to save for a home with my wife, Jenny. Returning home, bone-deep tired but finally holding our savings, I found the house too clean, Jenny wasn't there, and a small tag on her car keys led me to a high-end car wash. There, an attendant greeted me by name, confirming Jenny's "Platinum" status and frequent visits, which made no sense given her short commute, and a cold dread started to settle in. The truth exploded when I checked her car's GPS: thousands of miles logged to a luxury hotel, a cocktail lounge, and even a distant casino, all during my brutal year on the road, leaving me reeling in disbelief as I saw a fresh hickey on her neck, and then found a trash bag full of empty men' s cologne boxes and high-end boutique receipts. How could the woman I' d sacrificed everything for betray me so completely, then feign innocence and turn the entire town against me when her lover announced she was pregnant with his child? Humiliated and backed into a corner, I knew I had to fight back.

Introduction

I pushed my rig across forty-eight states for a year, eating at truck stops and sleeping in the cab, all to save for a home with my wife, Jenny.

Returning home, bone-deep tired but finally holding our savings, I found the house too clean, Jenny wasn't there, and a small tag on her car keys led me to a high-end car wash.

There, an attendant greeted me by name, confirming Jenny's "Platinum" status and frequent visits, which made no sense given her short commute, and a cold dread started to settle in.

The truth exploded when I checked her car's GPS: thousands of miles logged to a luxury hotel, a cocktail lounge, and even a distant casino, all during my brutal year on the road, leaving me reeling in disbelief as I saw a fresh hickey on her neck, and then found a trash bag full of empty men' s cologne boxes and high-end boutique receipts.

How could the woman I' d sacrificed everything for betray me so completely, then feign innocence and turn the entire town against me when her lover announced she was pregnant with his child?

Humiliated and backed into a corner, I knew I had to fight back.

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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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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin
4.5

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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