Love, Loss, and Vengeful Hearts

Love, Loss, and Vengeful Hearts

Gavin

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The phone rang, an unrecognized number, pulling me away from a routine check-up on a golden retriever. My life, for a moment, felt normal, calm. "Sarah... it' s me." Mary Johnson, my former mother-in-law. We hadn't spoken in three years, not since the funeral. My heart pounded as her strained voice stumbled: "Tomorrow... it' s Ethan' s..." I cut her off, the name a raw wound. Then she dropped the bomb: Mark, my ex-husband, wanted to visit the grave of the son he had killed. The calm shattered. I hung up. I blocked her number. The past, which I had so carefully buried, clawed its way back, a monstrous memory that began with a white leather handbag. Mark' s assistant, Chloe, obsessed with her new Celine, watched as my five-year-old son, Ethan, tripped and spilled juice all over it. Instead of comforting his sobbing child, Mark glared at Ethan, his voice cold: "You need to be punished. You need to learn a lesson about respecting other people's things." That was the excuse. The next day, he took Ethan to his office for a "father-son day." I kissed my boy goodbye, told him to be good for his daddy. It was the last time I saw him alive. The call came when I was thousands of miles away: "Ma'am, there's been an incident involving your son, Ethan. You need to come home immediately." At the hospital, Mark was nowhere to be found. Only his parents, Mary and David, stood by the operating room, their faces pale. The doctor emerged, his face grim. "We did everything we could... We couldn't save him." My world imploded. Then came the police officer, his voice low, detailing the horror: Ethan was found locked in a soundproofed server room at Mark' s office, dead from severe heat stroke. And Mark? He and Chloe left the office for an impromptu trip to Napa. My brain refused to process it. Mark locked our son in a hot room and just left him to die? With her? I fumbled for my phone, needing to hear him deny this monstrous story. His voice, annoyed, answered: "What? I'm busy, Sarah." I choked back tears: "Ethan... Mark, Ethan is dead." Just "Oh." Then Chloe's syrupy voice in the background: "Mark, honey, who is it? Come back to bed." My blood ran cold. "Are you with her?" I asked, my voice a dangerous whisper. He hung up. He blocked me. Our son was dead, and he had blocked my number to avoid ruining his trip with his mistress. The phone clattered to the floor. The world went black.

Introduction

The phone rang, an unrecognized number, pulling me away from a routine check-up on a golden retriever. My life, for a moment, felt normal, calm.

"Sarah... it' s me." Mary Johnson, my former mother-in-law. We hadn't spoken in three years, not since the funeral.

My heart pounded as her strained voice stumbled: "Tomorrow... it' s Ethan' s..." I cut her off, the name a raw wound.

Then she dropped the bomb: Mark, my ex-husband, wanted to visit the grave of the son he had killed. The calm shattered. I hung up. I blocked her number.

The past, which I had so carefully buried, clawed its way back, a monstrous memory that began with a white leather handbag. Mark' s assistant, Chloe, obsessed with her new Celine, watched as my five-year-old son, Ethan, tripped and spilled juice all over it.

Instead of comforting his sobbing child, Mark glared at Ethan, his voice cold: "You need to be punished. You need to learn a lesson about respecting other people's things."

That was the excuse. The next day, he took Ethan to his office for a "father-son day." I kissed my boy goodbye, told him to be good for his daddy. It was the last time I saw him alive.

The call came when I was thousands of miles away: "Ma'am, there's been an incident involving your son, Ethan. You need to come home immediately."

At the hospital, Mark was nowhere to be found. Only his parents, Mary and David, stood by the operating room, their faces pale. The doctor emerged, his face grim. "We did everything we could... We couldn't save him."

My world imploded. Then came the police officer, his voice low, detailing the horror: Ethan was found locked in a soundproofed server room at Mark' s office, dead from severe heat stroke. And Mark? He and Chloe left the office for an impromptu trip to Napa.

My brain refused to process it. Mark locked our son in a hot room and just left him to die? With her? I fumbled for my phone, needing to hear him deny this monstrous story.

His voice, annoyed, answered: "What? I'm busy, Sarah."

I choked back tears: "Ethan... Mark, Ethan is dead." Just "Oh." Then Chloe's syrupy voice in the background: "Mark, honey, who is it? Come back to bed." My blood ran cold.

"Are you with her?" I asked, my voice a dangerous whisper. He hung up. He blocked me. Our son was dead, and he had blocked my number to avoid ruining his trip with his mistress.

The phone clattered to the floor. The world went black.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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4.5

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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