The Man Who Faked His Own Death

The Man Who Faked His Own Death

Gavin

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The sterile white walls of the hospital room were my first sight, a blinding canvas reflecting the nothingness inside me. Just days ago, I was Scarlett, a nurse, a wife; now, I was a widow, grieving the hero firefighter who died saving me from our burning home. My childhood friend, Liam, found me after my desperate attempt to escape the crushing silence left behind, dragging me back to a life I didn't want. As I struggled for water, voices drifted from the hall-Mark, my husband' s colleague, and then him. "You're a lucky bastard," Mark chuckled. "A hero's funeral, the whole nine yards." "It was a lot of work," came the casual reply. "Had to make sure the dental records were switched, get the right uniform on the dummy. The gas line explosion covered the rest." It was Ryan. My dead husband. Alive. My breath hitched as I heard him dismiss my suicide attempt as "unfortunate" before explaining his elaborately faked death: it was all to leave me for Ava, his brother's widow. The man I died for, the hero I mourned, was a liar, a coward, who hadn't saved me from a fire but thrown me into one. My love curdled into scorching betrayal. He didn't just abandon me; he erased me, making my deep grief seem like a pathetic joke. In the shattering silence, as Liam, with his kind, honest eyes, rushed to my side, a wild, desperate idea ignited in the ruins of my heart. "Liam," I rasped, "do you remember what you asked me, a long time ago, under the old oak tree by the lake?" "Is the offer still on the table?" I asked, looking directly at the man who had always been my anchor. This wasn't about love. It was about pure, unadulterated defiance. This was about proving that the old Scarlett was dead, but a new, unbreakable woman had risen from the ashes he left behind. I would not be his victim. I would live, and I would erase every last trace of Ryan Miller from my life.

Introduction

The sterile white walls of the hospital room were my first sight, a blinding canvas reflecting the nothingness inside me.

Just days ago, I was Scarlett, a nurse, a wife; now, I was a widow, grieving the hero firefighter who died saving me from our burning home.

My childhood friend, Liam, found me after my desperate attempt to escape the crushing silence left behind, dragging me back to a life I didn't want.

As I struggled for water, voices drifted from the hall-Mark, my husband' s colleague, and then him.

"You're a lucky bastard," Mark chuckled. "A hero's funeral, the whole nine yards."

"It was a lot of work," came the casual reply. "Had to make sure the dental records were switched, get the right uniform on the dummy. The gas line explosion covered the rest."

It was Ryan. My dead husband. Alive.

My breath hitched as I heard him dismiss my suicide attempt as "unfortunate" before explaining his elaborately faked death: it was all to leave me for Ava, his brother's widow.

The man I died for, the hero I mourned, was a liar, a coward, who hadn't saved me from a fire but thrown me into one.

My love curdled into scorching betrayal.

He didn't just abandon me; he erased me, making my deep grief seem like a pathetic joke.

In the shattering silence, as Liam, with his kind, honest eyes, rushed to my side, a wild, desperate idea ignited in the ruins of my heart.

"Liam," I rasped, "do you remember what you asked me, a long time ago, under the old oak tree by the lake?"

"Is the offer still on the table?" I asked, looking directly at the man who had always been my anchor.

This wasn't about love. It was about pure, unadulterated defiance.

This was about proving that the old Scarlett was dead, but a new, unbreakable woman had risen from the ashes he left behind.

I would not be his victim.

I would live, and I would erase every last trace of Ryan Miller from my life.

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When Love Turns to Ash

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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