From Trophy Wife to Tyrant

From Trophy Wife to Tyrant

Gavin

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The crystal award for 'Architect of the Year' felt heavy in my hand, a symbol of everything I' d built. Beside me, my husband, Ethan Hayes, CEO of Hayes Corporation, flashed his perfect, devoted smile for the cameras. We were New York' s power couple, Olivia Vance, the sharp architect, and her seemingly perfect marriage. But the applause was a dull roar; I just wanted to go home. A recent project had left me with a shattered arm, a fresh, angry scar hidden under my gown. Ethan called it a small price for victory. Back in our penthouse, the celebratory champagne sat untouched. Ethan was on his phone, his voice a low, charming murmur. Then my phone buzzed with an unknown number. "This little flower is ready to bloom for you tonight." My breath hitched. Before I could react, another message arrived: a selfie of a young woman, maybe twenty. She was in my bed, the custom headboard, silk sheets, and specific grey walls unmistakable. "On your wedding bed, how scandalous!" the caption read. A cold wave washed over me, a chilling realization that shattered my arm felt with sudden, sharp pain. All my success, all my sacrifices for him, felt like a cruel, elaborate lie. He was letting a child play in our bed. Disgust curdled in my stomach as I looked at the man I had loved. Something inside me broke more completely than any bone. The love died. Only a cold, clear decision remained: I would bring his entire empire crashing down. I would take back my name, my life, and my freedom.

Introduction

The crystal award for 'Architect of the Year' felt heavy in my hand, a symbol of everything I' d built.

Beside me, my husband, Ethan Hayes, CEO of Hayes Corporation, flashed his perfect, devoted smile for the cameras.

We were New York' s power couple, Olivia Vance, the sharp architect, and her seemingly perfect marriage.

But the applause was a dull roar; I just wanted to go home.

A recent project had left me with a shattered arm, a fresh, angry scar hidden under my gown.

Ethan called it a small price for victory.

Back in our penthouse, the celebratory champagne sat untouched.

Ethan was on his phone, his voice a low, charming murmur.

Then my phone buzzed with an unknown number.

"This little flower is ready to bloom for you tonight."

My breath hitched.

Before I could react, another message arrived: a selfie of a young woman, maybe twenty.

She was in my bed, the custom headboard, silk sheets, and specific grey walls unmistakable.

"On your wedding bed, how scandalous!" the caption read.

A cold wave washed over me, a chilling realization that shattered my arm felt with sudden, sharp pain.

All my success, all my sacrifices for him, felt like a cruel, elaborate lie.

He was letting a child play in our bed.

Disgust curdled in my stomach as I looked at the man I had loved.

Something inside me broke more completely than any bone.

The love died.

Only a cold, clear decision remained: I would bring his entire empire crashing down.

I would take back my name, my life, and my freedom.

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When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

Short stories

4.7

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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