His Perfect Crime, Her Perfect Comeback

His Perfect Crime, Her Perfect Comeback

Gavin

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The ghost of my right hand ached, a constant reminder of the car crash that stole my career as a concert pianist five years ago. My husband, tech mogul David Miller, had lovingly built me a gilded cage-a penthouse palace where I was his celebrated, wounded wife, a testament to my sacrifice. "It's a masterpiece, David. The whole thing," I overheard his best friend, Mark, say. "The comeback story, the adoring husband. You've played it perfectly." My fingers hovered over the piano keys in my studio. My breath caught. "Still," Mark pressed, his voice dropping, "that car crash... it was perfectly staged. How could you know Olivia would sacrifice her hand to save you?" My world crumbled. Staged? I crept to the library door, peeking through the crack. David, swirling amber liquid, smirked. "Because she loves me," he purred, "just as I love Sarah." Sarah Jenkins. His protégé. The brilliant pianist who had risen in my place. "Ollie was always in the way," he continued. "Her talent... it was too loud. Sarah needed a clear path. I gave her one." My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a scream. The charity galas, the custom gowns, the public adoration-it wasn't love. It was a cover-up. My agonizing years of practice, my belief that my music was a testament to our shared survival-all a grotesque joke. He hadn't honored my sacrifice; he'd celebrated his crime. My life, my love, my loss-all a meticulously crafted lie. My world didn't just crumble; it was obliterated. In the rubble, cold, hard revenge began to sprout. He thought he had silenced me, turned me into a beautiful, broken symbol. He was wrong. I would not be a guest performer at the Golden Rose. I would be a competitor. I would take back everything he had stolen. I would burn his entire empire to the ground.

Introduction

The ghost of my right hand ached, a constant reminder of the car crash that stole my career as a concert pianist five years ago.

My husband, tech mogul David Miller, had lovingly built me a gilded cage-a penthouse palace where I was his celebrated, wounded wife, a testament to my sacrifice.

"It's a masterpiece, David. The whole thing," I overheard his best friend, Mark, say.

"The comeback story, the adoring husband. You've played it perfectly."

My fingers hovered over the piano keys in my studio.

My breath caught.

"Still," Mark pressed, his voice dropping, "that car crash... it was perfectly staged. How could you know Olivia would sacrifice her hand to save you?"

My world crumbled.

Staged?

I crept to the library door, peeking through the crack.

David, swirling amber liquid, smirked.

"Because she loves me," he purred, "just as I love Sarah."

Sarah Jenkins. His protégé. The brilliant pianist who had risen in my place.

"Ollie was always in the way," he continued. "Her talent... it was too loud. Sarah needed a clear path. I gave her one."

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a scream.

The charity galas, the custom gowns, the public adoration-it wasn't love. It was a cover-up.

My agonizing years of practice, my belief that my music was a testament to our shared survival-all a grotesque joke.

He hadn't honored my sacrifice; he'd celebrated his crime.

My life, my love, my loss-all a meticulously crafted lie.

My world didn't just crumble; it was obliterated.

In the rubble, cold, hard revenge began to sprout.

He thought he had silenced me, turned me into a beautiful, broken symbol.

He was wrong.

I would not be a guest performer at the Golden Rose.

I would be a competitor.

I would take back everything he had stolen.

I would burn his entire empire to the ground.

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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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