His Other Woman, My Broken Heart

His Other Woman, My Broken Heart

Gavin

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It was our third wedding anniversary, and I sat alone at a dinner table set for two, a positive pregnancy test clutched in my hand. I' d imagined telling Ethan a thousand times, picturing his joy, the final piece of our life together clicking into place. But then headlights swept across the living room window, and relief turned to ice as I watched him help Chloe, his college sweetheart and the ghost of our marriage, out of the passenger door. I knew, in that single, shattering moment, that it was over. Chloe had waltzed back into our lives months ago, claiming heartbreak, and Ethan had swallowed it whole, canceling our plans to "cheer her up." Now, she was in our living room, draped on our couch, with Ethan stroking her hair, a tenderness he hadn't shown me in months. He accused me of being selfish for pointing out it was our anniversary, twisting our wedding vows into a weapon against me, defending Chloe with a venom I' d never seen directed at myself. The fight left me, all hope draining away as I realized the man I loved was gone, replaced by a stranger who saw me with annoyance and disdain. Then Chloe, with a smirk, told me I was just a placeholder, sending a photo of Ethan asleep in a hotel room, a kiss mark on his neck, sealing my fate. My world went silent, the brutal truth hitting me: I had never stood a chance against her, the great love of his life. I found the hidden divorce papers, a secret escape hatch he'd prepared, and signed my name. When he finally stumbled in, smelling of whiskey and her perfume, I showed him the photo, and then he left again, for her, leaving me to pick up the shattered pieces of my life. I was done being the quiet, steady one, the convenient wife. I called my best friend, Sarah, determined to leave, ready to protect the tiny, secret life growing inside me from this poison.

Introduction

It was our third wedding anniversary, and I sat alone at a dinner table set for two, a positive pregnancy test clutched in my hand.

I' d imagined telling Ethan a thousand times, picturing his joy, the final piece of our life together clicking into place.

But then headlights swept across the living room window, and relief turned to ice as I watched him help Chloe, his college sweetheart and the ghost of our marriage, out of the passenger door.

I knew, in that single, shattering moment, that it was over.

Chloe had waltzed back into our lives months ago, claiming heartbreak, and Ethan had swallowed it whole, canceling our plans to "cheer her up."

Now, she was in our living room, draped on our couch, with Ethan stroking her hair, a tenderness he hadn't shown me in months.

He accused me of being selfish for pointing out it was our anniversary, twisting our wedding vows into a weapon against me, defending Chloe with a venom I' d never seen directed at myself.

The fight left me, all hope draining away as I realized the man I loved was gone, replaced by a stranger who saw me with annoyance and disdain.

Then Chloe, with a smirk, told me I was just a placeholder, sending a photo of Ethan asleep in a hotel room, a kiss mark on his neck, sealing my fate.

My world went silent, the brutal truth hitting me: I had never stood a chance against her, the great love of his life.

I found the hidden divorce papers, a secret escape hatch he'd prepared, and signed my name.

When he finally stumbled in, smelling of whiskey and her perfume, I showed him the photo, and then he left again, for her, leaving me to pick up the shattered pieces of my life.

I was done being the quiet, steady one, the convenient wife.

I called my best friend, Sarah, determined to leave, ready to protect the tiny, secret life growing inside me from this poison.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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