Her Empire, His Ruin

Her Empire, His Ruin

Gavin

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My thumb hovered over the screen, then I tapped the little heart. It was a beautiful, honest architecture project from an old friend, the kind I used to dream of doing. Then the comment popped up from another classmate: "Ethan Miller! Good to see you' re still keeping up with real architecture. Thought you' d be lost to the dark side by now." The "dark side" was Vance Development, my wife Olivia' s company, where I was the head architect, designing sterile luxury condos. I closed the app, the familiar dull ache starting in my chest, and watched Olivia prepare for the Urban Development Gala in our opulent penthouse. She needed to project success for the mayor and investors, especially with the Greenleaf Park deal-a small beloved park in a working-class neighborhood she planned to destroy for our most luxurious development yet, The Pinnacle. "Try to look happy tonight, Ethan," she' d said, not looking at me. "It doesn' t look good if my own husband seems miserable." I was miserable. And people were talking about her and Leo Maxwell, her new star project manager. Her calendar, carelessly left open on the kitchen tablet, confirmed my fears: "2 PM - 5 PM: Site Immersion w/ Leo - The Pinnacle." A secret meeting, not the kind she told everyone about. I watched her black town car pull away. The anger and jealousy were gone, replaced by a chilling clarity. The foundation was cracked. It had to come down. My phone buzzed. Olivia. She knew about the social media like. "Ethan, what the hell was that?" Her voice was sharp, panicked. "Are you trying to sabotage me?" "It was a post from a friend, Olivia. I liked it." "A friend who builds non-profit shacks out of garbage! Leo was just saying how important a unified front is right now." Leo. Of course. She softened her tone: "Once the Pinnacle project is greenlit, we' ll take that trip to Italy, the one we talked about. Just us." The promise was hollow, a worn-out coin she offered whenever she needed my compliance. "Okay, Olivia," I said, my voice flat. "I have to go. Leo is waiting. Don' t be late for the gala." She hung up. I walked to my study, opened the drawer, and looked at the divorce papers my lawyer had drawn up a month ago. The decision was no longer a question. It was an answer.

Introduction

My thumb hovered over the screen, then I tapped the little heart. It was a beautiful, honest architecture project from an old friend, the kind I used to dream of doing.

Then the comment popped up from another classmate: "Ethan Miller! Good to see you' re still keeping up with real architecture. Thought you' d be lost to the dark side by now."

The "dark side" was Vance Development, my wife Olivia' s company, where I was the head architect, designing sterile luxury condos.

I closed the app, the familiar dull ache starting in my chest, and watched Olivia prepare for the Urban Development Gala in our opulent penthouse.

She needed to project success for the mayor and investors, especially with the Greenleaf Park deal-a small beloved park in a working-class neighborhood she planned to destroy for our most luxurious development yet, The Pinnacle.

"Try to look happy tonight, Ethan," she' d said, not looking at me. "It doesn' t look good if my own husband seems miserable."

I was miserable. And people were talking about her and Leo Maxwell, her new star project manager.

Her calendar, carelessly left open on the kitchen tablet, confirmed my fears: "2 PM - 5 PM: Site Immersion w/ Leo - The Pinnacle." A secret meeting, not the kind she told everyone about.

I watched her black town car pull away. The anger and jealousy were gone, replaced by a chilling clarity. The foundation was cracked. It had to come down.

My phone buzzed. Olivia. She knew about the social media like.

"Ethan, what the hell was that?" Her voice was sharp, panicked. "Are you trying to sabotage me?"

"It was a post from a friend, Olivia. I liked it."

"A friend who builds non-profit shacks out of garbage! Leo was just saying how important a unified front is right now." Leo. Of course.

She softened her tone: "Once the Pinnacle project is greenlit, we' ll take that trip to Italy, the one we talked about. Just us."

The promise was hollow, a worn-out coin she offered whenever she needed my compliance.

"Okay, Olivia," I said, my voice flat.

"I have to go. Leo is waiting. Don' t be late for the gala." She hung up.

I walked to my study, opened the drawer, and looked at the divorce papers my lawyer had drawn up a month ago. The decision was no longer a question. It was an answer.

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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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