The Prodigy’s Last Dance of Love

The Prodigy's Last Dance of Love

Gavin

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The terminal diagnosis felt like an ending, a quiet period to a long, exhausting sentence. I, Ava, the world' s only true prodigy in data analytics, was dying. My mind-a machine that could map the future with flawless precision-couldn't find a single path that didn't end in a hospital bed. The irony was suffocating. My body was failing because my mind had been running at an impossible overload for centuries. Not just this lifetime, but seven of them, a secret etched physically on my chest. Then the doorbell rang. It was Liam, my ex-fiancé, radiating success as always. But he wasn't alone. Clinging to his arm, my stepsister, Chloe, was unmistakably pregnant. "We came to tell you in person," Liam said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Chloe and I are getting married. Next month." Chloe added with fake sweetness, "We wanted you to be the first to know, sis." He then dropped the bombshell: "I' m buying out your shares. It' s time we made a clean break." He was cutting me out, erasing me from the company I had built. I watched him. He saw my frail form, noted my fading life, and coldly assessed it as his final liberation. He believed my death would untether him, unleashing his supposed genius to unimaginable heights. Little did he know, he was a parasitic fool convinced he was the host. For six hundred years, I had been the silent engine behind his every success, bleeding myself dry in the process. Each lifetime, my illness and early death fueled his ascent, bound by a master-servant contract. He thought my dying was his victory. He was wrong. My death was not a sentence. It was a deadline. And for the first time in centuries, I felt not despair, but a cold, sharp surge of energy. He thought he was closing the book on me. He had just given me permission to write the final, devastating chapter. This time, I was ready to reclaim what was mine.

Introduction

The terminal diagnosis felt like an ending, a quiet period to a long, exhausting sentence.

I, Ava, the world' s only true prodigy in data analytics, was dying.

My mind-a machine that could map the future with flawless precision-couldn't find a single path that didn't end in a hospital bed.

The irony was suffocating.

My body was failing because my mind had been running at an impossible overload for centuries.

Not just this lifetime, but seven of them, a secret etched physically on my chest.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was Liam, my ex-fiancé, radiating success as always.

But he wasn't alone.

Clinging to his arm, my stepsister, Chloe, was unmistakably pregnant.

"We came to tell you in person," Liam said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Chloe and I are getting married. Next month."

Chloe added with fake sweetness, "We wanted you to be the first to know, sis."

He then dropped the bombshell: "I' m buying out your shares. It' s time we made a clean break."

He was cutting me out, erasing me from the company I had built.

I watched him.

He saw my frail form, noted my fading life, and coldly assessed it as his final liberation.

He believed my death would untether him, unleashing his supposed genius to unimaginable heights.

Little did he know, he was a parasitic fool convinced he was the host.

For six hundred years, I had been the silent engine behind his every success, bleeding myself dry in the process.

Each lifetime, my illness and early death fueled his ascent, bound by a master-servant contract.

He thought my dying was his victory.

He was wrong.

My death was not a sentence.

It was a deadline.

And for the first time in centuries, I felt not despair, but a cold, sharp surge of energy.

He thought he was closing the book on me.

He had just given me permission to write the final, devastating chapter.

This time, I was ready to reclaim what was mine.

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When Love Turns to Ash

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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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