My House, My Revenge

My House, My Revenge

Gavin

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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.

Introduction

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.

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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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