Reborn: A Husband's Vengeance

Reborn: A Husband's Vengeance

Gavin

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The sterile smell of the hospital room was the last thing I remembered. Cancer had eaten away at me, my career crumbled, my fortune gone. Then I saw them: my perfectly made-up wife, Sarah, and our sullen son, Billy, standing by my deathbed. "Just sign the papers, Mark," she' d said, her voice devoid of warmth, talking about my last company shares for David' s "venture." David. The man she' d been sleeping with for years, Billy' s biological father. I remembered the fake charity events, the money diverted, my childhood home sold to cover his gambling debts. I remembered how she' d helped my mother take her car to a "new mechanic," and how, as I lay dying, Sarah laughed, confessing to tampering with the brakes. "She never liked me anyway," she' d whispered, her face inches from mine, "And Billy... Does he look anything like you? You pathetic idiot." The monitor flatlined as Billy turned away in disgust and Sarah smiled, victorious. My life had been a lie, a crushing weight of betrayal. Then, I gasped. The air was clean; I was in my living room, strong and healthy. Across from me stood Sarah, looking exactly as she did ten years ago. "Mark," she said, her voice sharp and final. "I want a divorce." The words echoed. I was back at the starting point of my nightmare, but this time, I wasn't the naive husband. I knew every detail of the fire, and a strange, shimmering number hovered above her head: [$8,150,432]. It was her net worth. Then David walked in, and above his head glowed a stark, alarming red: [-$20,789,140]. I could see what people were worth. I was reborn, armed with the truth, and this time, the ending would be different.

Introduction

The sterile smell of the hospital room was the last thing I remembered.

Cancer had eaten away at me, my career crumbled, my fortune gone.

Then I saw them: my perfectly made-up wife, Sarah, and our sullen son, Billy, standing by my deathbed.

"Just sign the papers, Mark," she' d said, her voice devoid of warmth, talking about my last company shares for David' s "venture."

David. The man she' d been sleeping with for years, Billy' s biological father.

I remembered the fake charity events, the money diverted, my childhood home sold to cover his gambling debts.

I remembered how she' d helped my mother take her car to a "new mechanic," and how, as I lay dying, Sarah laughed, confessing to tampering with the brakes.

"She never liked me anyway," she' d whispered, her face inches from mine, "And Billy... Does he look anything like you? You pathetic idiot."

The monitor flatlined as Billy turned away in disgust and Sarah smiled, victorious.

My life had been a lie, a crushing weight of betrayal.

Then, I gasped.

The air was clean; I was in my living room, strong and healthy.

Across from me stood Sarah, looking exactly as she did ten years ago.

"Mark," she said, her voice sharp and final. "I want a divorce."

The words echoed. I was back at the starting point of my nightmare, but this time, I wasn't the naive husband.

I knew every detail of the fire, and a strange, shimmering number hovered above her head: [$8,150,432]. It was her net worth.

Then David walked in, and above his head glowed a stark, alarming red: [-$20,789,140].

I could see what people were worth. I was reborn, armed with the truth, and this time, the ending would be different.

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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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