His Billion-Dollar Regret

His Billion-Dollar Regret

Gavin

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My body was a battlefield, stitches screaming with every step, but my heart soared. I had just given a kidney to save Liam, the struggling artist I loved more than life itself. This massive sacrifice for the man I believed was my destiny, the fellow orphan who understood my every struggle, was all worth it because he would live. But then, laughter peeled from his hospital room – not just Liam' s, but his wealthy friends', their voices dripping with cruel amusement. "I can' t believe she actually did it," Tiffany' s voice sliced through me. "Sold a kidney! For you! That is the funniest thing I have ever heard." My world shattered as Liam, the "dying" patient, emerged from his charade, pulling off a fake IV and lighting a cigarette, his smirk cold and unfamiliar. The room reeked of betrayal. Liam, the "struggling artist," was the heir to the massive Blackwood Corporation. His illness, our shared past, his love – all a meticulously crafted lie, a cruel game orchestrated by Tiffany to "teach the little orphan a lesson." The thought made me sick; I had carved myself open for a ghost, my every genuine feeling trashed for their entertainment. Why? Why would someone inflict such calculated cruelty? My hope, once so vibrant, was crushed, leaving a gaping wound where my heart used to be. The humiliation was a physical weight, but then a cold, quiet rage began to burn away the tears. They thought they had broken me, reduced me to a pathetic charity case. They were wrong. I would not be their mouse anymore. I pulled out my phone, a new purpose hardening my resolve. I was done playing their game; it was time to leave.

Introduction

My body was a battlefield, stitches screaming with every step, but my heart soared.

I had just given a kidney to save Liam, the struggling artist I loved more than life itself.

This massive sacrifice for the man I believed was my destiny, the fellow orphan who understood my every struggle, was all worth it because he would live.

But then, laughter peeled from his hospital room – not just Liam' s, but his wealthy friends', their voices dripping with cruel amusement.

"I can' t believe she actually did it," Tiffany' s voice sliced through me.

"Sold a kidney!

For you!

That is the funniest thing I have ever heard."

My world shattered as Liam, the "dying" patient, emerged from his charade, pulling off a fake IV and lighting a cigarette, his smirk cold and unfamiliar.

The room reeked of betrayal.

Liam, the "struggling artist," was the heir to the massive Blackwood Corporation.

His illness, our shared past, his love – all a meticulously crafted lie, a cruel game orchestrated by Tiffany to "teach the little orphan a lesson."

The thought made me sick; I had carved myself open for a ghost, my every genuine feeling trashed for their entertainment.

Why?

Why would someone inflict such calculated cruelty?

My hope, once so vibrant, was crushed, leaving a gaping wound where my heart used to be.

The humiliation was a physical weight, but then a cold, quiet rage began to burn away the tears.

They thought they had broken me, reduced me to a pathetic charity case.

They were wrong.

I would not be their mouse anymore.

I pulled out my phone, a new purpose hardening my resolve.

I was done playing their game; it was time to leave.

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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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