Played For A Fool? Not Me.

Played For A Fool? Not Me.

Gavin

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The spilled champagne soaked the carpet, and Tara Lawrence's voice cut through the lounge like a knife. "On your knees. Clean it up with a napkin, you little bitch." I stood my ground, my tray balanced perfectly. I refused, knowing it meant losing my job. To my shock, Caleb Scott, the casino empire' s heir, didn't fire me. Instead, he summoned me to a penthouse with a bizarre proposition: "Be my girlfriend." It made no sense. Why would a man like him want a cocktail waitress, especially after I publicly defied his friend? My suspicions were confirmed when I overheard Tara: Caleb's offer was a cruel bet. They planned to shower me with luxury for a year, make me fall in love, then dump me, leaving me utterly broken, ensured I could never reclaim my old life. They laughed about me throwing myself off a bridge when it was over. My blood ran cold, but a fierce resolve ignited within me. They thought they were playing me, but I saw it differently. This wasn't just a game; it was war, and I was going to play to win. They saw a low-class waitress; I saw my first investors. They were funding my launch.

Introduction

The spilled champagne soaked the carpet, and Tara Lawrence's voice cut through the lounge like a knife.

"On your knees. Clean it up with a napkin, you little bitch."

I stood my ground, my tray balanced perfectly.

I refused, knowing it meant losing my job.

To my shock, Caleb Scott, the casino empire' s heir, didn't fire me.

Instead, he summoned me to a penthouse with a bizarre proposition: "Be my girlfriend."

It made no sense. Why would a man like him want a cocktail waitress, especially after I publicly defied his friend?

My suspicions were confirmed when I overheard Tara: Caleb's offer was a cruel bet.

They planned to shower me with luxury for a year, make me fall in love, then dump me, leaving me utterly broken, ensured I could never reclaim my old life.

They laughed about me throwing myself off a bridge when it was over.

My blood ran cold, but a fierce resolve ignited within me.

They thought they were playing me, but I saw it differently.

This wasn't just a game; it was war, and I was going to play to win.

They saw a low-class waitress; I saw my first investors.

They were funding my launch.

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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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