Poisoned Cupcakes, Poisoned Heart

Poisoned Cupcakes, Poisoned Heart

Gavin

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My life as a librarian in a small Southern town was perfect, a sun-drenched dream. My new husband, Mark, was solid and dependable. And then, two pink lines: triplets. My heart swelled, a joy so big it almost hurt. But the whisper started, directly in my mind. "I hope Mommy Sarah likes the special cupcakes I made just for her." It was Chloe, Mark' s sweet-faced ten-year-old daughter. A cold dread, sharp and familiar, sliced through me. It wasn' t just a dream, it was a terrifying memory of a life I' d lived before, a future so certain it felt like the past. Chloe, innocent smile, offering poisoned cupcakes. Me, trusting, then fire, loss, and darkness. My unborn babies and I, gone. "Sarah, honey, look what Chloe made for you!" Mark boomed, holding a plate of bright cupcakes. I gasped, faking sudden morning sickness. Panicked, I offered them to Mark. Chloe' s innocent mask flickered; panic flashed in her eyes when I suggested Mark try one. She snatched the plate, claiming they were only for me. A cupcake fell, and our golden retriever, Buddy, gobbled the frosting. Minutes later, Buddy was violently retching, poisoned. The vet confirmed it: household cleaner. Chloe burst into tears, feigning an accident, but her projected thought was chilling: "Stupid dog. Almost ruined everything." Mark, heartbroken by Buddy' s illness, was blinded by her act. He looked at me, full of concern for Chloe. "It was just a terrible mistake, Sarah. She' s just a child." He didn' t know. He couldn't hear the venom, the calculation, the hidden hatred aimed at me and my unborn children. How could I make him see the truth when the enemy wore a child' s face and spoke only in my mind? A new, icy fear coiled around the warmth of my babies. This was just the beginning.

Introduction

My life as a librarian in a small Southern town was perfect, a sun-drenched dream.

My new husband, Mark, was solid and dependable.

And then, two pink lines: triplets.

My heart swelled, a joy so big it almost hurt.

But the whisper started, directly in my mind.

"I hope Mommy Sarah likes the special cupcakes I made just for her."

It was Chloe, Mark' s sweet-faced ten-year-old daughter.

A cold dread, sharp and familiar, sliced through me.

It wasn' t just a dream, it was a terrifying memory of a life I' d lived before, a future so certain it felt like the past.

Chloe, innocent smile, offering poisoned cupcakes.

Me, trusting, then fire, loss, and darkness.

My unborn babies and I, gone.

"Sarah, honey, look what Chloe made for you!" Mark boomed, holding a plate of bright cupcakes.

I gasped, faking sudden morning sickness.

Panicked, I offered them to Mark.

Chloe' s innocent mask flickered; panic flashed in her eyes when I suggested Mark try one.

She snatched the plate, claiming they were only for me.

A cupcake fell, and our golden retriever, Buddy, gobbled the frosting.

Minutes later, Buddy was violently retching, poisoned.

The vet confirmed it: household cleaner.

Chloe burst into tears, feigning an accident, but her projected thought was chilling: "Stupid dog. Almost ruined everything."

Mark, heartbroken by Buddy' s illness, was blinded by her act.

He looked at me, full of concern for Chloe.

"It was just a terrible mistake, Sarah. She' s just a child."

He didn' t know.

He couldn't hear the venom, the calculation, the hidden hatred aimed at me and my unborn children.

How could I make him see the truth when the enemy wore a child' s face and spoke only in my mind?

A new, icy fear coiled around the warmth of my babies.

This was just the beginning.

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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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