No Love Left for Her

No Love Left for Her

Gavin

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The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop. It wasn't like the movies. It just sounded wrong. I looked up from my SAT prep book, but my sister Sarah didn't even flinch. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew this sound. I knew this exact moment. In my last life, this was when I grabbed Sarah, screaming for her to run. The second shot came, closer. I dragged her under the table, promising to protect her. The shooter found us anyway. I felt the searing pain in my shoulder. But my focus was on Sarah, bleeding from a bullet to her abdomen. I called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance, the world-renowned neurosurgeon. "Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped. "Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled. "Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan." "It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!" But the line went dead. She had hung up on me. Sarah died in my arms, waiting for an ambulance that came too late. My family never forgave me. They looked through me, not at me. Olivia painted me as the monster. "He was jealous of her," she' d said. "He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly." They believed her. They always believed her. They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter. A few weeks later, my mother found me in the kitchen. Her eyes were hollow, dead. She held a syringe. "It should have been you," she whispered. "It' s all your fault." She plunged the needle into my neck. The world went dark. And then I woke up. I was back in the library, the SAT book open to the same page. Sarah was across from me, alive. The date on my phone confirmed it. It was the same day. Then came the pop. The first gunshot. This time, I looked at Sarah. I saw the daughter our parents adored. The girl who got everything while I got scraps. The centerpiece of the family that cast me out and left me to die. The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses. The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival. A second shot, closer this time. Sarah finally looked up, eyes wide. "Liam? What was that?" I didn' t answer. I didn't grab her hand. I didn't scream for her to hide. I stood, my chair scraping loudly. I turned my back on her. And I ran. I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall. I didn' t look back. This time, I would not be the hero. This time, I would save myself.

Introduction

The first gunshot was a flat, ugly pop.

It wasn't like the movies. It just sounded wrong.

I looked up from my SAT prep book, but my sister Sarah didn't even flinch.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I knew this sound.

I knew this exact moment.

In my last life, this was when I grabbed Sarah, screaming for her to run.

The second shot came, closer.

I dragged her under the table, promising to protect her.

The shooter found us anyway.

I felt the searing pain in my shoulder.

But my focus was on Sarah, bleeding from a bullet to her abdomen.

I called my mother, Dr. Olivia Vance, the world-renowned neurosurgeon.

"Liam? What is it? I' m busy," her voice was clipped.

"Mom, it' s Sarah! She' s been shot! At the school library, there' s a shooter!" I yelled.

"Don' t be ridiculous, Liam. Stop trying to get attention with these sick jokes. I' m on my way to the beach with Ethan."

"It' s not a joke! Mom, please! She' s bleeding, she needs a doctor, she needs you!"

But the line went dead. She had hung up on me.

Sarah died in my arms, waiting for an ambulance that came too late.

My family never forgave me.

They looked through me, not at me.

Olivia painted me as the monster.

"He was jealous of her," she' d said. "He probably distracted her, kept her from hiding properly."

They believed her.

They always believed her.

They ostracized me, the son who failed to save the perfect daughter.

A few weeks later, my mother found me in the kitchen.

Her eyes were hollow, dead.

She held a syringe.

"It should have been you," she whispered. "It' s all your fault."

She plunged the needle into my neck.

The world went dark.

And then I woke up.

I was back in the library, the SAT book open to the same page.

Sarah was across from me, alive.

The date on my phone confirmed it.

It was the same day.

Then came the pop. The first gunshot.

This time, I looked at Sarah.

I saw the daughter our parents adored.

The girl who got everything while I got scraps.

The centerpiece of the family that cast me out and left me to die.

The memory of my mother' s dead eyes, the cold prick of the needle, flooded my senses.

The choice was not a choice at all. It was survival.

A second shot, closer this time.

Sarah finally looked up, eyes wide. "Liam? What was that?"

I didn' t answer.

I didn't grab her hand.

I didn't scream for her to hide.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly.

I turned my back on her.

And I ran.

I pushed through the heavy library doors just as the first real screams echoed down the hall.

I didn' t look back.

This time, I would not be the hero.

This time, I would save myself.

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The Truth About His Mistress

The Truth About His Mistress

Gavin
4.7

I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

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