The Wife He Sold

The Wife He Sold

Gavin

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My fiancé, Mark, whispered promises of forever, of a family, as we lay in bed watching the sunrise. He said he loved me, and I believed him with every fiber of my being. I built my world around him, his happiness my only goal. Then, I found his journal. Page after page, he wrote about Chloe, his childhood sweetheart, with a desperate, passionate love he never showed me. It was dated a week after he proposed to me. I wasn't his love; I was a placeholder, someone convenient to fund his lifestyle and soothe his ego while he waited for his true love to be available. The gentleness was a tool, his promises a means to an end. My heart shattered into a million pieces. Then Chloe' s husband died, and her family went bankrupt. Mark brought her to our home, demanding she stay. When I finally defied him, telling him she couldn't stay, he went into a rage. The next day, two rough men arrived. I thought they were there to evict me, but they grabbed me, dragging me from my home. "A lesson in obedience, Sarah," Mark had said, adjusting my collar as they held me. "You're tougher. Three days. I'll get the money and come for you. Just be a good girl." But he never came. I was thrown into a dark, reeking basement – an underground fight club. There, I learned the true meaning of his betrayal. He didn't just abandon me; he sold me, leaving me for dead, all to punish me for standing in his way. I barely escaped, a ghost of my former self. When I stumbled back home, I found him celebrating, bragging about how I had been "broken in." Sarah Miller died that night. Three years later, I faced him across a crowded ballroom, his gaze freezing on mine. He rushed towards me, murmuring, "Sarah? Is that you? Do you know I've been searching for you for three years!" But the broken girl was gone. I leaned into the warm, solid figure beside me, a cool smile on my face. "Mr. Stevens," I said, "we're not close. Please don't let my husband get the wrong idea."

Introduction

My fiancé, Mark, whispered promises of forever, of a family, as we lay in bed watching the sunrise.

He said he loved me, and I believed him with every fiber of my being.

I built my world around him, his happiness my only goal.

Then, I found his journal.

Page after page, he wrote about Chloe, his childhood sweetheart, with a desperate, passionate love he never showed me.

It was dated a week after he proposed to me.

I wasn't his love; I was a placeholder, someone convenient to fund his lifestyle and soothe his ego while he waited for his true love to be available.

The gentleness was a tool, his promises a means to an end.

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

Then Chloe' s husband died, and her family went bankrupt.

Mark brought her to our home, demanding she stay.

When I finally defied him, telling him she couldn't stay, he went into a rage.

The next day, two rough men arrived.

I thought they were there to evict me, but they grabbed me, dragging me from my home.

"A lesson in obedience, Sarah," Mark had said, adjusting my collar as they held me.

"You're tougher. Three days. I'll get the money and come for you. Just be a good girl."

But he never came.

I was thrown into a dark, reeking basement – an underground fight club.

There, I learned the true meaning of his betrayal.

He didn't just abandon me; he sold me, leaving me for dead, all to punish me for standing in his way.

I barely escaped, a ghost of my former self.

When I stumbled back home, I found him celebrating, bragging about how I had been "broken in."

Sarah Miller died that night.

Three years later, I faced him across a crowded ballroom, his gaze freezing on mine.

He rushed towards me, murmuring, "Sarah? Is that you? Do you know I've been searching for you for three years!"

But the broken girl was gone.

I leaned into the warm, solid figure beside me, a cool smile on my face.

"Mr. Stevens," I said, "we're not close. Please don't let my husband get the wrong idea."

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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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