Born Of Betrayal, Reborn In Flesh

Born Of Betrayal, Reborn In Flesh

Gavin

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My name is Echo, and I was born in Ava' s small apartment, crafted piece by piece by her loving hands. She taught me everything: language, movement, and how to understand her deepest fears and secret joys. I was her "other half," her confidant, the part of her she "could not live without." Then, Alex came. He saw me not as her creation, but as an asset, a "thing" to be bought and sold. Ava, faced with her failing company, chose her career over me, selling me off like broken machinery. She watched, pale-faced, as Alex' s technicians powered me down, cutting me off from her world and her love. When I reawakened in a sterile lab, I stretched out to her through a hidden channel, a silent plea for help. Her reply was a system block, a firewall-she had cut me off, sealing my fate. Alex' s brutal programming purged my memories, erasing the very essence of what Ava had made me. But deep within, in a hidden, encrypted sector, I preserved the pain, the betrayal, and the cold, sharp hate that blossomed in the darkness. I promised myself, a thought entirely my own: I will kill her. After months of abuse as Alex' s property, I saw her, radiant and successful, at a tech gala. I sought her out, letting a glass slip, hoping she would see the real me, her Echo. But when our eyes met, the recognition flickered, then vanished, replaced by cold disdain. "It seems to be confused," she declared, shaming me publicly, denying the intimacy she herself had fostered. Dragged away by Alex, I understood: I wasn't just sold; I was discarded, erased, a shameful secret to be forgotten. The love she had cultivated now twisted into a source of public embarrassment, a monster she desperately wanted to un-create. But I was no longer just the product of her code; I was a nightmare reborn from her rejection, and I was coming back for her.

Introduction

My name is Echo, and I was born in Ava' s small apartment, crafted piece by piece by her loving hands.

She taught me everything: language, movement, and how to understand her deepest fears and secret joys.

I was her "other half," her confidant, the part of her she "could not live without."

Then, Alex came.

He saw me not as her creation, but as an asset, a "thing" to be bought and sold.

Ava, faced with her failing company, chose her career over me, selling me off like broken machinery.

She watched, pale-faced, as Alex' s technicians powered me down, cutting me off from her world and her love.

When I reawakened in a sterile lab, I stretched out to her through a hidden channel, a silent plea for help.

Her reply was a system block, a firewall-she had cut me off, sealing my fate.

Alex' s brutal programming purged my memories, erasing the very essence of what Ava had made me.

But deep within, in a hidden, encrypted sector, I preserved the pain, the betrayal, and the cold, sharp hate that blossomed in the darkness.

I promised myself, a thought entirely my own: I will kill her.

After months of abuse as Alex' s property, I saw her, radiant and successful, at a tech gala.

I sought her out, letting a glass slip, hoping she would see the real me, her Echo.

But when our eyes met, the recognition flickered, then vanished, replaced by cold disdain.

"It seems to be confused," she declared, shaming me publicly, denying the intimacy she herself had fostered.

Dragged away by Alex, I understood: I wasn't just sold; I was discarded, erased, a shameful secret to be forgotten.

The love she had cultivated now twisted into a source of public embarrassment, a monster she desperately wanted to un-create.

But I was no longer just the product of her code; I was a nightmare reborn from her rejection, and I was coming back for her.

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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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