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The Cheating Husband’s Painful Secret

The Cheating Husband's Painful Secret

Gavin

5.0
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The harsh, sterile light of the emergency room usually brought me a sense of purpose. But tonight, it felt like a spotlight on my humiliation. There, on a gurney, was my husband, Liam, clutching his groin, his face pale and contorted, his designer jeans cut away by paramedics. Next to him, a young woman in a crop top, mascara streaked, held his hand, whining about him collapsing. Then I saw it on his chart: Priapism. A prolonged, painful erection. A side effect of recreational drugs. On our tenth wedding anniversary. "I\'m his wife," I finally managed, the words tasting like acid. Her jaw dropped. "His wife? But he told me he was divorced! He said I was his girlfriend." The air left my lungs. My colleagues watched as Dr. Evelyn Reed, brilliant cardiac surgeon, couldn\'t even hold her own marriage together. Relief curdled into rage as Liam avoided my gaze. He looked weak, pathetic. "No, Dr. Chen," I said, my voice cold and clear. "I\'ll handle it. He\'s my patient now." I stripped off my wedding ring, dropping it onto the gurney next to his hand. "We\'re done, Liam. Consider this my anniversary gift to you." The memory of him whispering promises of forever, of honesty, of a partnership built on respect, now felt like a cruel lie. This wasn't just betrayal. He had faked a vasectomy years ago, after our miscarriage, telling me he only needed me, while planning this separate life. The depth of his deceit made me physically sick. A Code Blue saved me from that moment, calling me to save a life. But I promised myself, after I saved my patient, I would return and systematically destroy Liam\'s. I wouldn't look back.

Introduction

The harsh, sterile light of the emergency room usually brought me a sense of purpose. But tonight, it felt like a spotlight on my humiliation.

There, on a gurney, was my husband, Liam, clutching his groin, his face pale and contorted, his designer jeans cut away by paramedics.

Next to him, a young woman in a crop top, mascara streaked, held his hand, whining about him collapsing.

Then I saw it on his chart: Priapism. A prolonged, painful erection. A side effect of recreational drugs. On our tenth wedding anniversary.

"I\'m his wife," I finally managed, the words tasting like acid.

Her jaw dropped. "His wife? But he told me he was divorced! He said I was his girlfriend."

The air left my lungs. My colleagues watched as Dr. Evelyn Reed, brilliant cardiac surgeon, couldn\'t even hold her own marriage together.

Relief curdled into rage as Liam avoided my gaze. He looked weak, pathetic.

"No, Dr. Chen," I said, my voice cold and clear. "I\'ll handle it. He\'s my patient now."

I stripped off my wedding ring, dropping it onto the gurney next to his hand. "We\'re done, Liam. Consider this my anniversary gift to you."

The memory of him whispering promises of forever, of honesty, of a partnership built on respect, now felt like a cruel lie.

This wasn\'t just betrayal. He had faked a vasectomy years ago, after our miscarriage, telling me he only needed me, while planning this separate life.

The depth of his deceit made me physically sick.

A Code Blue saved me from that moment, calling me to save a life.

But I promised myself, after I saved my patient, I would return and systematically destroy Liam\'s.

I wouldn\'t look back.

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From Victim To Victor

From Victim To Victor

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The stifling heat of my dorm room was the first sign. It clung to me like a wet blanket, a stark contrast to the cool relief of the hallway. Then came the sharp voice, Olivia' s, followed by the others, demanding I turn off the AC I' d just turned on. "Turn that off." "Yeah, turn it off. It' s freezing." They seemed unaffected, even as I sweltered. Then came the electricity bill: an exorbitant $485.62, more than double last month, which they insisted I pay, all of it. "What' s the matter, Chloe? Can' t afford it? I thought your family was rich." It was a blatant lie, a twisted mockery of my efforts to be fair, to be liked. The feeling of pure injustice burned within me. What had I done to deserve this escalating torment? "You're our personal ATM, Chloe. And we're not done making withdrawals." They weren't just taking my money; they were stripping away my dignity, piece by piece. My phone-my only lifeline-was next, then a brutal beating, culminating in my terrifying imprisonment in a dark, foul-smelling closet. My own father, Mr. Thompson, the university trustee, was just outside. He heard the fabricated lies, the slander about my character, and believed them, leaving me in that dark place, thinking he' d abandoned me. His quiet departure, the click of the door, felt like the end. But a final, desperate sound, a frantic phone call from my best friend Jessica, pierced through the despair, and then the thundering demand of my father' s voice, now raw with panic: "Open this door!" My fight for survival was just beginning.

When Friends Become Your Cruelest Foes

When Friends Become Your Cruelest Foes

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"Lily, you should do it," Tiffany Hayes purred, her eyes fixed on me in the art academy' s lounge. As the scholarship student, managing our class' s two-million-dollar art fund seemed like a twisted honor, a responsibility the elite kids conveniently dodged. Three years later, at our graduation exhibition-the night my life' s work was finally displayed-my childhood friend, Mark Miller, seized the microphone. "Our class art fund has been mismanaged," he announced, his gaze piercing me. "One point eight million dollars is missing." The dreams I had meticulously built shattered. Every eye in the buzzing gallery turned to me, judging, accusing. Tiffany, Mark' s girlfriend, stood by his side, her feigned sympathy a cold knife twisting inside me. They stripped me bare, painting me a thief, a public spectacle. "I have records of everything," I insisted. "Every dollar is accounted for!" But the projection screen behind him flashed a balance of $1,250.34, sealing my fate. "Just tell us what you did with the money," Tiffany cooed, trying to lure out a confession. "We were friends." Friends? Their betrayal burned hotter than any accusation. They had done this. Set me up. Framed me. The rage and humiliation were suffocating, but a cold resolve began to crystallize within me. They thought they had broken me, but they had just ignited a fire. I walked out of the gallery that night, not in defeat, but with a fierce determination. I would find the truth. I would expose them. And they would pay.

He Lied, I Thrived Anyway

He Lied, I Thrived Anyway

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My relationship with Liam was a twenty-year slow burn, a homecoming everyone called perfect and meant to be. Then, scrolling through my phone one Tuesday night, an anonymous post on a local gossip forum shattered that illusion. It was a gushing narrative from a girl named Olivia, detailing secret meetings and gifts from a business school charmer-the same limited-edition sneakers I' d seen Liam coveting, the ones he told me were sold out. Beneath it, a comment read, "He even lied to his clingy childhood friend 'girlfriend' that they were sold out just so he could surprise me. He says he\'s only with her because his parents like her." Clingy childhood friend. The words felt like a punch, blurring my vision. My heart raced as I dialed Liam, his warm greeting a stark contrast to the betrayal I' d uncovered. He lied about the sneakers, easily, poorly, confirming my worst fears. His flimsy denial crumbled when I confronted him with Olivia' s account, his "nervous edge" a stark contrast to my unwavering fury. My best friend Maya' s warning echoed: "I don\'t trust him, Chloe. The way he was looking at her... it wasn\'t friendly." How stupid I felt for defending him. Then, the final blow: Olivia' s public profile, a cascade of photos-his hand in hers, his familiar smile reserved for her, captioned "My one and only. Soon the whole world will know." Posted just an hour ago. The heartbreak was physical, but beneath it, a cold, sharp anger stirred. This wasn't a misunderstanding; it was a cruel, deliberate deception. I hung up, no more lies needed, meeting my own clear gaze in the dark phone screen. I was no longer just a heartbroken girl; I was a girl who had been played for a fool, and I would not let him get away with it.

No Longer His Muse

No Longer His Muse

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The sterile white walls of Liam's penthouse, a gilded cage masquerading as my studio, stifled me. Every painting, every breath, belonged to him. Then, a cold, glowing message appeared in my vision: `[Muse System Activated. Main Task: Sever the parasitic relationship with Liam.]` My secret guide had arrived. Its first sub-quest: `[Facilitate the marriage between Liam and his childhood sweetheart, Scarlett.]` This was my way out. I became the perfect, pliant artist, orchestrating his reunion with the sophisticated art critic he truly desired. I endured her disdain, even painting her tributes to feed his obsession. The night of the Art Gala, I felt unwell, my head spinning from stress. As I steadied myself by an ice sculpture, Scarlett deliberately bumped me. I stumbled, and a piece of the sculpture crashed down, narrowly missing her. She screamed, accusing me of jealousy, of trying to hurt her. Liam, his rage burning, pulled her into his arms, completely ignoring me. `"Chloe! What the hell did you do?"` he snarled. The crowd's murmurs turned into accusations, judging me the crazy, jealous mistress. A familiar cramping seized my stomach, and I doubled over in searing pain. Blood trickled down my leg, a dark stain on my light dress. I was having a miscarriage, a life I didn't even know I carried. Liam dragged me to his car, ` "Can' t you go one night without making a scene?" ` he hissed, before abandoning me in the parking lot to return to Scarlett. The system confirmed my loss: `[Pregnancy terminated due to physical trauma.]` I realized then: this wasn't just neglect. It was calculated cruelty, a test from Scarlett to see how far he'd go for her. And he had passed. His utter indifference, his willingness to sacrifice me, ignited a cold fury. I would still get them together. But this time, it wouldn' t be for his happiness. It would be for my ultimate, painful freedom.

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