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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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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