From Victim to Victor

From Victim to Victor

Felix Turner

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The downtown coffee shop was just another Tuesday, another latte, until a voice from five years ago sliced through the mundane. Jessica, holding a ridiculously expensive handbag, scanned me with eyes full of judgment, then dropped a bombshell: Ethan, my ex, still mentioned me. He'd soared to success, made millions, yet, according to her, he never forgot "the girl who just disappeared," the one who supposedly "accused him of not understanding her." The twisted narrative continued, painting him as the heartbroken victim, me as the obsessed, unfaithful one who used him as a "substitute" for a ghost. My hand clenched on my purse, the old lies churning my stomach, the memory of public shame and private agony flickering back. But the old pain dissolved into pure clarity as I looked her straight in the eye: "I'm married, Jessica. And my son is turning four next month."

Introduction

The downtown coffee shop was just another Tuesday, another latte, until a voice from five years ago sliced through the mundane.

Jessica, holding a ridiculously expensive handbag, scanned me with eyes full of judgment, then dropped a bombshell: Ethan, my ex, still mentioned me.

He'd soared to success, made millions, yet, according to her, he never forgot "the girl who just disappeared," the one who supposedly "accused him of not understanding her."

The twisted narrative continued, painting him as the heartbroken victim, me as the obsessed, unfaithful one who used him as a "substitute" for a ghost.

My hand clenched on my purse, the old lies churning my stomach, the memory of public shame and private agony flickering back.

But the old pain dissolved into pure clarity as I looked her straight in the eye: "I'm married, Jessica. And my son is turning four next month."

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The Hundred-Point Divorce

The Hundred-Point Divorce

Romance

3.5

My heart hammered. My Moleskine, my "Strike List," lay open on Ethan’s desk. Every betrayal, every point deducted from our marriage. One hundred points, and I’d be free. He’d already reached ninety-five. Then came the fire, raging through his ex, Olivia's, restaurant. Ethan, my husband, became a frantic hero for her, oblivious to my presence, my pain. I was just background noise in his obsession. But the true horror emerged months later. Pregnant and hemorrhaging in the ER, fighting for my life, I needed an O-negative blood transfusion. The doctor’s voice was grim: "Your husband has reserved our entire O-negative supply for a Ms. Olivia Vance—for her minor cosmetic procedure." Over speakerphone, I heard Ethan's cold, impatient reply: "Olivia’s needs are paramount. That blood is for her. My wife will have to wait." Our baby, our future, became collateral damage for his obsession. He chose her appearance over our child's life. How could the man who swore to cherish me, who claimed to fulfill my dying father’s wish, be capable of such monstrous indifference? Was I really just a convenient placeholder, waiting for his 'true love' to become available? The pain was a hollow echo now, not sharp, but vast and empty. The score was final. One hundred points. My hand, trembling but resolute, reached for the divorce papers. I packed my life into boxes, leaving behind a marriage that was never really mine, and booked a one-way flight to Austin. This was not the end; it was the ferocious, unyielding beginning of my own story.

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