Revenge Wears a Soft Smile

Revenge Wears a Soft Smile

Gavin

5.0
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The morning sun streamed into my penthouse, just like any other day. My fiancé, Liam, walked in with coffee and a croissant, his perfect smile radiating devotion. But the world had been dark just moments before, stained with the taste of blood and the memory of his smiling face as I lay dying on the cold floor of an institution. Now, it was two years before that horrific end. Two years before he destroyed everything and had me committed to a mental asylum. The last thing I remembered was his betrayal, his cruel laughter as my life, my company, and my sanity were systematically stripped away for his ambition. I watched him now, playing the part of the loving partner, reminiscing about the "Project Titan" software that was once my life' s work, the very foundation he would steal and rebrand as his own. He told me I was working too hard, that he would "take the pressure off." It was the same speech, the same insidious opening move he' d used before. A practiced performance that had once fooled me completely. How could I have been so blind, so naive, to open my heart and my world to such a snake? The memories of his lies, his manipulation, his ultimate act of sending me to an early grave, burned through me. But this time, the pain was fuel, not weakness. My smile might have been soft, but inside, a cold certainty settled deep in my bones. This wasn't a dream. It was a do-over. He thought he had won. He thought this was the start of everything for him. He was right. It was the start of his end. And I was going to enjoy every second of it.

Introduction

The morning sun streamed into my penthouse, just like any other day.

My fiancé, Liam, walked in with coffee and a croissant, his perfect smile radiating devotion.

But the world had been dark just moments before, stained with the taste of blood and the memory of his smiling face as I lay dying on the cold floor of an institution.

Now, it was two years before that horrific end.

Two years before he destroyed everything and had me committed to a mental asylum.

The last thing I remembered was his betrayal, his cruel laughter as my life, my company, and my sanity were systematically stripped away for his ambition.

I watched him now, playing the part of the loving partner, reminiscing about the "Project Titan" software that was once my life' s work, the very foundation he would steal and rebrand as his own.

He told me I was working too hard, that he would "take the pressure off."

It was the same speech, the same insidious opening move he' d used before.

A practiced performance that had once fooled me completely.

How could I have been so blind, so naive, to open my heart and my world to such a snake?

The memories of his lies, his manipulation, his ultimate act of sending me to an early grave, burned through me.

But this time, the pain was fuel, not weakness.

My smile might have been soft, but inside, a cold certainty settled deep in my bones.

This wasn't a dream.

It was a do-over.

He thought he had won.

He thought this was the start of everything for him.

He was right.

It was the start of his end.

And I was going to enjoy every second of it.

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I lay in the sterile silence of the hospital, mourning the baby I never got to hold. Everyone called it a tragic accident. A slip and fall. But I knew the truth of my husband's shove. Mark finally came to visit. He didn't bring flowers; he brought a briefcase. Inside were divorce papers and a non-disclosure agreement. He calmly informed me that his mistress-my friend-was pregnant. They were his "real family" now, and they couldn't have any "unpleasantness." He threatened to use fabricated psychiatric reports to paint me as an unstable danger to myself. "Sign the papers, Clara," he warned, his voice void of emotion. "Or you'll be moved from this comfortable room to a more... secure facility. A long-term one." I looked at the man I had loved and saw a monster. This wasn't a tragedy; it was a corporate takeover of my life. He had been meeting with lawyers while I was losing our child. I wasn't his grieving wife; I was a liability being managed, a loose end to be tied. I was utterly and completely trapped. Just as despair consumed me, my parents' old lawyer appeared like a ghost from the past. She pressed a heavy, ornate key into my palm. "Your parents left you an escape route," she whispered, her eyes filled with resolve. "For a day like this." The key led to a forgotten contract, a pact made by our grandfathers decades ago. An ironclad marriage agreement, binding me to the one man my husband feared more than death itself: the ruthless, reclusive billionaire Julian Thorne.

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