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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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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