No Longer Love My Step-Brother, But My Contracted Husband

No Longer Love My Step-Brother, But My Contracted Husband

Gavin

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"Yes, Dad. I agree." My voice was steady, my eyes fixed on a ceiling crack. My father needed a lifeline for his company, and I, Ava, was his duty, a merger by marriage. But before I could even process the words, my stepbrother, Liam, snatched the phone from my hand, his grip crushing, his eyes blazing. "Who the hell are you marrying?" he snarled, a harsh laugh ripping through him when he learned of my defiance. "You live in my house, Ava. Everything you do is my business." For a decade, I had silently loved him, only to be yanked back into his cruel games. Just last week, his drunken confession of "Maybe it's always been you" had sent my foolish heart soaring, before Chloe' s reappearance instantly turned him cold. He'd discarded my cherished birthday gift, a hand-carved bird with a broken wing, into the trash, a brutal symbol of his rejection. Then, Chloe vandalized the only photos I had of my deceased mother, and Liam let her. My world crumbled. How could the boy who once swore to protect me become this monster? Dragged into public humiliation by Chloe's staged shopping fiasco, then publicly shamed by Liam online as an "obsessed stalker" to appease her. Abused physically, thrown into a sterile hospital room, forced into a procedure he believed would "solve his problem," all under the terrifying lie that I was pregnant to trap him. The utter violation, the betrayal of my trust and body, left me hollowed, a profound and sickening realization that I was merely a tool, a replacement for some lost love, Eleanor. But their cruelty ignited something new within me. No more. I gathered the last remnants of my strength, my silent tears replaced by a chilling resolve. It was time to leave, to finally break free from this gilded cage, and reclaim myself.

Introduction

"Yes, Dad. I agree." My voice was steady, my eyes fixed on a ceiling crack. My father needed a lifeline for his company, and I, Ava, was his duty, a merger by marriage.

But before I could even process the words, my stepbrother, Liam, snatched the phone from my hand, his grip crushing, his eyes blazing. "Who the hell are you marrying?" he snarled, a harsh laugh ripping through him when he learned of my defiance. "You live in my house, Ava. Everything you do is my business."

For a decade, I had silently loved him, only to be yanked back into his cruel games. Just last week, his drunken confession of "Maybe it's always been you" had sent my foolish heart soaring, before Chloe' s reappearance instantly turned him cold. He'd discarded my cherished birthday gift, a hand-carved bird with a broken wing, into the trash, a brutal symbol of his rejection. Then, Chloe vandalized the only photos I had of my deceased mother, and Liam let her. My world crumbled.

How could the boy who once swore to protect me become this monster? Dragged into public humiliation by Chloe's staged shopping fiasco, then publicly shamed by Liam online as an "obsessed stalker" to appease her. Abused physically, thrown into a sterile hospital room, forced into a procedure he believed would "solve his problem," all under the terrifying lie that I was pregnant to trap him. The utter violation, the betrayal of my trust and body, left me hollowed, a profound and sickening realization that I was merely a tool, a replacement for some lost love, Eleanor.

But their cruelty ignited something new within me. No more. I gathered the last remnants of my strength, my silent tears replaced by a chilling resolve. It was time to leave, to finally break free from this gilded cage, and reclaim myself.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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