Eight Years of Gilded Cage

Eight Years of Gilded Cage

Gavin

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It was our eighth wedding anniversary, and my husband, Mark Johnson, wasn't home. He was celebrating another woman's birthday, as usual. I sat in the silence of our gilded cage, the emotional wounds from years of neglect and indifference finally festering. He never hit me, not until tonight, but Chloe's Instagram post-Mark, her, a cake-ignited a rage I couldn't contain. When he finally stumbled in, past midnight, reeking of her perfume, I confronted him. "It's our anniversary, Mark." He sneered, "At least she's fun to be around. She doesn't just sit in the dark waiting to ambush me." The words tasted like poison. "I want a divorce, Mark." His face went white. "And," I added, "I'm pregnant. And the baby isn't yours." His shock turned to pure fury. "You lying, cheating bitch." He lunged, shoved me hard, and I fell backward, hitting the coffee table. A searing pain ripped through me. I looked down to see blood spreading on my dress. "Mark," I gasped, "The hospital... please..." He just scoffed, "You think a baby that isn't mine is your ticket out? You're pathetic, Ava." He pocketed the watch I'd bought him for our anniversary and walked out, leaving me bleeding on the floor. Eight years. He left me to die. Lying there, clutching my bleeding stomach, I knew I had to do something. For my baby. My fingers, slick with blood, fumbled for my phone, calling the one person who had ever shown me true kindness. Someone I' d promised I' d never call. That night, Liam Thorne answered.

Introduction

It was our eighth wedding anniversary, and my husband, Mark Johnson, wasn't home.

He was celebrating another woman's birthday, as usual.

I sat in the silence of our gilded cage, the emotional wounds from years of neglect and indifference finally festering.

He never hit me, not until tonight, but Chloe's Instagram post-Mark, her, a cake-ignited a rage I couldn't contain.

When he finally stumbled in, past midnight, reeking of her perfume, I confronted him.

"It's our anniversary, Mark."

He sneered, "At least she's fun to be around. She doesn't just sit in the dark waiting to ambush me."

The words tasted like poison.

"I want a divorce, Mark."

His face went white.

"And," I added, "I'm pregnant. And the baby isn't yours."

His shock turned to pure fury.

"You lying, cheating bitch."

He lunged, shoved me hard, and I fell backward, hitting the coffee table.

A searing pain ripped through me.

I looked down to see blood spreading on my dress.

"Mark," I gasped, "The hospital... please..."

He just scoffed, "You think a baby that isn't mine is your ticket out? You're pathetic, Ava."

He pocketed the watch I'd bought him for our anniversary and walked out, leaving me bleeding on the floor.

Eight years.

He left me to die.

Lying there, clutching my bleeding stomach, I knew I had to do something.

For my baby.

My fingers, slick with blood, fumbled for my phone, calling the one person who had ever shown me true kindness.

Someone I' d promised I' d never call.

That night, Liam Thorne answered.

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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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