Curator of My Own Life

Curator of My Own Life

Gavin

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The plane ride felt endless, but a rush of excitement washed over me, eager to see my Uncle Julian, the man who' d raised me since my parents died. I pictured his welcoming smile, the scent of turpentine, the way he' d call me his "little artist." But the grand foyer greeted me with an unsettling silence instead of his usual classical music. Then I saw them: Julian, his hands covering a woman' s visibly pregnant stomach, his head bent, whispering, before a slow, tender kiss that shattered my world. My suitcase, filled with paintings for him, crashed to the marble floor, but the expected scream or tears never came. Instead, a chilling calm settled over me as I simply nodded, congratulating them both, while Julian stared, expecting a scene I' d given him countless times in another life. That vivid phantom memory, a brutal replay of past heartbreak where I' d screamed, pleaded, and ultimately lost everything – my art, my self-respect, my will to live – became my shield. It was a ghost, a warning. This time, I wouldn' t make the same mistake. This time, I chose to let go and disappear from a life that was never truly mine.

Introduction

The plane ride felt endless, but a rush of excitement washed over me, eager to see my Uncle Julian, the man who' d raised me since my parents died.

I pictured his welcoming smile, the scent of turpentine, the way he' d call me his "little artist."

But the grand foyer greeted me with an unsettling silence instead of his usual classical music.

Then I saw them: Julian, his hands covering a woman' s visibly pregnant stomach, his head bent, whispering, before a slow, tender kiss that shattered my world.

My suitcase, filled with paintings for him, crashed to the marble floor, but the expected scream or tears never came.

Instead, a chilling calm settled over me as I simply nodded, congratulating them both, while Julian stared, expecting a scene I' d given him countless times in another life.

That vivid phantom memory, a brutal replay of past heartbreak where I' d screamed, pleaded, and ultimately lost everything – my art, my self-respect, my will to live – became my shield.

It was a ghost, a warning. This time, I wouldn' t make the same mistake. This time, I chose to let go and disappear from a life that was never truly mine.

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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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