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The Art of Starting Over

The Art of Starting Over

Gavin

5.0
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34
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At eighty, I lay dying in a sterile hospital room, a life I felt was utterly wasted flashing before my eyes. My wife of sixty years, Olivia Hayes, sat beside me, her stoic composure a familiar mask. Then, her whispered confession shattered everything: "Tell Daniel... I've always loved him." Daniel, her colleague from decades ago. Sixty years of quiet resentment, of being a placeholder, a fool. Rage burned in my dying body-a useless, consuming fire. Then, darkness. Light. Soft blankets. My young mother' s beaming face. It was 1987. I was a baby again, but the memories of my eighty-year life, and Olivia's betrayal, were searing. "Mom," I squeaked, my infant voice unwavering, "I won't marry Olivia Hayes." Years later, at eighteen, the name Olivia was a constant dread. Our families had an arranged engagement, a relic I had accepted in my past life. This time, it was a prison sentence. I saw her with Daniel Lee at the community center, laughing the unguarded laugh I rarely saw in our marriage, her caring gestures confirming the truth. She approached me, that familiar stoic calm in place, perhaps to touch my arm. I stepped back, a deliberate movement. "Are you avoiding me?" she asked, her tone flat. I met her gaze directly. "We should keep our distance, Olivia. It's better for everyone." I walked away. My past life, a suffocating nightmare. This life would be different. This life was for me. I would be free.

Introduction

At eighty, I lay dying in a sterile hospital room, a life I felt was utterly wasted flashing before my eyes.

My wife of sixty years, Olivia Hayes, sat beside me, her stoic composure a familiar mask.

Then, her whispered confession shattered everything: "Tell Daniel... I've always loved him."

Daniel, her colleague from decades ago.

Sixty years of quiet resentment, of being a placeholder, a fool.

Rage burned in my dying body-a useless, consuming fire.

Then, darkness.

Light. Soft blankets. My young mother' s beaming face.

It was 1987. I was a baby again, but the memories of my eighty-year life, and Olivia's betrayal, were searing.

"Mom," I squeaked, my infant voice unwavering, "I won't marry Olivia Hayes."

Years later, at eighteen, the name Olivia was a constant dread.

Our families had an arranged engagement, a relic I had accepted in my past life.

This time, it was a prison sentence.

I saw her with Daniel Lee at the community center, laughing the unguarded laugh I rarely saw in our marriage, her caring gestures confirming the truth.

She approached me, that familiar stoic calm in place, perhaps to touch my arm.

I stepped back, a deliberate movement.

"Are you avoiding me?" she asked, her tone flat.

I met her gaze directly. "We should keep our distance, Olivia. It's better for everyone."

I walked away. My past life, a suffocating nightmare.

This life would be different. This life was for me.

I would be free.

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My House, My Revenge

My House, My Revenge

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5.0

Six months after losing my husband, Mark, I was a ghost in my own life, scrolling through Instagram when a photo ripped me from my numbness. It was Chloe' s account, a former intern I' d mentored, but the background-our living room. My living room. Only it wasn' t. The minimalist haven I designed was desecrated by gaudy gold wallpaper, a hideous leopard-print sofa, and a cheap crystal chandelier. Strangers laughed, red plastic cups in hand, in the space Mark and I built as a testament to our love. The house, bleeding, was screaming. Chloe was at its center, champagne flute in hand, her arm around David, Mark' s business partner. My husband' s friend. He smiled smugly, possessively, kissing her cheek. The caption: "New beginnings in our new home! Out with the old, in with the new! #blessed #bosslife." Our new home? My blood ran cold. My kitchen, painted garish pink. My garden, a frat house with a hot tub and beer bottles. They had taken my sanctuary, our legacy, and turned it into a mockery. The rage arrived like a physical blow, a hot spike in my chest. My hands shook, but my mind was terrifyingly clear. I called David. "What the hell are you and Chloe doing in my house?" His slick, unbothered voice, punctuated by Chloe' s infuriating giggle, coolly informed me Mark had signed everything over to him. It was his house now. His company. All perfectly legal. "People do strange things when the end is near," he sneered, dismissing Mark as a mere business transaction. He hung up, leaving me with the silence screaming in my ears. Just a house. It wasn' t just a house. It was my life. The last piece of Mark. And they had taken it, desecrated it, and were laughing. The grief that had fogged my world for six months burned away, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. They thought I was beaten, a grieving widow easily pushed aside. They had no idea who they were dealing with. I am a brilliant architect. I am meticulous. I see the flaws in every design, the stress points in every structure. And I designed that house. They' d started a war. I was going to finish it.

Chloe’s Game: No More Mr. Nice

Chloe’s Game: No More Mr. Nice

Short stories

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The air in my workshop crackled with the hum of servers, a frantic race against a deadline for the National Tech Innovator' s Competition. My revolutionary AI was finally ready, my fingers flying across the keyboard, when my older brother Ethan walked in, his smile perfect and camera-ready. He handed me an energy drink, "A little something for good luck," he said, his voice smooth as silk. But as my fingers brushed the can, a glitched red warning flashed on my monitor: "WARNING: Item contains a bio-tech neuro-inhibitor. Target: Chloe." My heart hammered. Before I could process it, my childhood friend, Liam, arrived with a delicate charm bracelet and another warning: "WARNING: Item is a remote data-theft device… Recipient: Sarah." Sarah. My biggest rival. The pieces clicked into place: it was a plan to steal my mind and my work for her. Before I could react, Brenda, the school bully, burst in, demanding money. A cold, sharp idea formed in my mind. I gave Brenda the sabotaged drink and bracelet. Ethan' s perfect smile vanished, replaced by fury, as he hissed, "You' d rather give it to her than accept my help?" Liam, playing the peacemaker, tried to push another bracelet on me, another link in their chain. The fear was gone, replaced by something harder. I looked at their deceptive faces, my brother and my best friend, united against me. "No, thank you, Liam," I said, my voice clear and void of emotion, meeting Ethan' s furious gaze. This wasn' t a surrender. Their game was over. Mine was just beginning.

Forever With My Children

Forever With My Children

Short stories

5.0

The last thing I remembered was the cold, damp earth on my knees, kneeling before Liam' s grave as my wife, Olivia, stood over me, her beautiful face a mask of pure hatred. "This is where you belong, Ethan. At his feet." I had believed her promise of a child, an heir, would free me from her cruel games and secure our future. Instead, her obsession with her dead childhood sweetheart, Liam, led her to deliberately delay the C-section for our twins, costing them their lives. Then, she had her guards beat me to death. But I woke up. In a sterile white hospital room, the rhythmic beeping of a machine in my ears, I saw Olivia, seemingly unchanged, on the phone, ordering the very delay that doomed our children in my first life. My heart, which I thought was empty, throbbed with a dull ache as she publicly declared another child - Liam' s son, Lucas - her sole heir, and callously ordered my own babies to be "gotten rid of." Paternal love surged, and I rushed to protect them, only to be struck down. I awoke again, beaten and framed for attacking them, mocked by Olivia and the fake Liam. Then came the chilling realization: Olivia, too, remembered. She knew about my "second chance" and taunted me with it. She used my dying father, his life hanging by a thread in the same hospital, as leverage. When I reluctantly agreed to her demands, she killed him right in front of me, shattering my world. Imprisoned in the dark basement of our old mansion with the bodies of my dead children, utter despair consumed me. How could this be happening again? Why did she hate me so much, across two lifetimes? Why couldn't I escape this nightmare? But Olivia's twisted victory was short-lived. The very betrayal she orchestrated began to unravel, revealing Liam' s true identity as a con man and Lucas as a stranger' s child. The architect of my torment had built her empire on a foundation of lies, and now, it was all about to come crashing down.

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