Unloved Wife, Unstoppable Woman

Unloved Wife, Unstoppable Woman

Gavin

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The twisted metal was the last thing I remembered before darkness took over. When I woke, the hospital air hung heavy with antiseptic, and my body screamed with fresh injuries. My first thought was of Mark, my husband, the man I' d sacrificed my brilliant career for. My phone, cracked but miraculously working, trembled in my hand as I called his number, a number I knew better than my own. It rang. And rang. Then, voicemail. Panic clawed at my drug-induced calm. He always answered. An hour later. Voicemail. Again? Voicemail. My last hope was our son, Liam, glued to his phone. "Liam, honey, it' s Mom. I can' t reach your father. Can you please tell him I' m in the hospital? I was in a car accident." His voice was cold, impatient. "What?" Then, the sickening scoff. "A car accident? Is that your new strategy to get Dad' s attention? He' s busy, Mom. He' s with Chloe, closing a big deal. He doesn' t have time for your drama." Chloe. The name hit me harder than the car had. "Liam, I' m not lying. I' m at City General. I' m hurt." "Whatever," he drawled, bored. "Stop calling and bothering us. You' re just embarrassing yourself." The click echoed in the sterile room. A notification flashed on my cracked screen: You have been blocked by this number. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The physical pain was nothing compared to the shattering agony in my heart. Betrayed by my husband, abandoned by my son. In that moment something inside me broke. But something else, hard and resolute, began to form.

Introduction

The twisted metal was the last thing I remembered before darkness took over.

When I woke, the hospital air hung heavy with antiseptic, and my body screamed with fresh injuries.

My first thought was of Mark, my husband, the man I' d sacrificed my brilliant career for.

My phone, cracked but miraculously working, trembled in my hand as I called his number, a number I knew better than my own.

It rang. And rang. Then, voicemail.

Panic clawed at my drug-induced calm. He always answered.

An hour later. Voicemail. Again? Voicemail.

My last hope was our son, Liam, glued to his phone.

"Liam, honey, it' s Mom. I can' t reach your father. Can you please tell him I' m in the hospital? I was in a car accident."

His voice was cold, impatient. "What?"

Then, the sickening scoff. "A car accident? Is that your new strategy to get Dad' s attention? He' s busy, Mom. He' s with Chloe, closing a big deal. He doesn' t have time for your drama."

Chloe. The name hit me harder than the car had.

"Liam, I' m not lying. I' m at City General. I' m hurt."

"Whatever," he drawled, bored. "Stop calling and bothering us. You' re just embarrassing yourself."

The click echoed in the sterile room. A notification flashed on my cracked screen: You have been blocked by this number.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The physical pain was nothing compared to the shattering agony in my heart.

Betrayed by my husband, abandoned by my son.

In that moment something inside me broke. But something else, hard and resolute, began to form.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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