Reborn at Thirty: His Ultimate Regret

Reborn at Thirty: His Ultimate Regret

Gavin

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The piercing beep of the carbon monoxide detector was the last sound I heard on Christmas Eve, my thirtieth birthday. Then, a searing pain, and I gasped awake, not in my cold, dark apartment, but in a sterile, bright hospital room, giving birth. I was twenty-five again, watching Liam, my charismatic husband, and his perfectly coiffed mother, Brenda, barely acknowledge our newborn son, Leo. I remembered my first life: Liam' s growing indifference, sacrificing my culinary dreams for a love that was never returned, watching my son embrace another woman. The pain of that life, more real than the lingering ache of childbirth, burned in my gut: I vowed I would not live that life again. When Chloe, the woman Liam had left me for, showed up at our door, ostensibly as a "colleague," and I overheard Liam confessing that I was nothing more than "the next best thing," "a substitute." My heart shattered, but this time, it forged ice. When Liam sabotaged my return to the culinary world, taking the restaurant opportunity I had secured and handing it to Chloe, then poaching my entire team, all to publicly humiliate me. The numbness shattered, replaced by a white-hot, furious clarity: This was war. I walked into his office, saw Chloe perched on his desk, and told him, "Liam, I want a divorce." He followed me to Paris, trying to reclaim me, but I refused, winning the culinary competition he' d tried to sabotage. I knew, with sickening certainty, that he had lost the best part of himself. I built my own kingdom, and the future was a blank page, and for the first time, I was the one holding the pen.

Introduction

The piercing beep of the carbon monoxide detector was the last sound I heard on Christmas Eve, my thirtieth birthday.

Then, a searing pain, and I gasped awake, not in my cold, dark apartment, but in a sterile, bright hospital room, giving birth.

I was twenty-five again, watching Liam, my charismatic husband, and his perfectly coiffed mother, Brenda, barely acknowledge our newborn son, Leo.

I remembered my first life: Liam' s growing indifference, sacrificing my culinary dreams for a love that was never returned, watching my son embrace another woman.

The pain of that life, more real than the lingering ache of childbirth, burned in my gut: I vowed I would not live that life again.

When Chloe, the woman Liam had left me for, showed up at our door, ostensibly as a "colleague," and I overheard Liam confessing that I was nothing more than "the next best thing," "a substitute."

My heart shattered, but this time, it forged ice.

When Liam sabotaged my return to the culinary world, taking the restaurant opportunity I had secured and handing it to Chloe, then poaching my entire team, all to publicly humiliate me.

The numbness shattered, replaced by a white-hot, furious clarity: This was war.

I walked into his office, saw Chloe perched on his desk, and told him, "Liam, I want a divorce."

He followed me to Paris, trying to reclaim me, but I refused, winning the culinary competition he' d tried to sabotage.

I knew, with sickening certainty, that he had lost the best part of himself.

I built my own kingdom, and the future was a blank page, and for the first time, I was the one holding the pen.

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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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