The memory of our eighth anniversary was burned into my mind, a perfect image of how my life fell apart. My wife, Olivia, tearfully confessed to a one-night stand, blaming her assistant, Leo. She even picked up a shard of broken wine glass and dragged it across her arm. I loved her, and consumed by my own pain and desperate to save our marriage, I chose to believe her. Two years later, Leo sat across from me in a coffee shop, smug, and ready to shatter my world. "She played you for a fool, Ethan," he said, sliding a thick manila envelope across the table. Inside were photographs: Olivia and Leo, together, smiling, happy. Three years. A timeline that meant she was with him even before she "confessed." Then came the final blow: "Our son, Ethan. He's a year old now. Looks just like me." My world tilted, every intimate moment, every shared smile, every "I love you" of the past three years twisting into a grotesque lie. When I confronted Olivia, her response was chilling, laced with a casual defiance that curdled my blood. "The Hayes family doesn't do divorce," she said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling tone. "We only get widowed." The woman I loved was a monster, seeing me as a tool, an obstacle in her elaborate scheme. Trapped, I knew I couldn't fight her family's power. There was only one person who could help me disappear so completely she would think I was dead. I dialed the number to my estranged sister, Sarah, the family ghost.
The memory of our eighth anniversary was burned into my mind, a perfect image of how my life fell apart.
My wife, Olivia, tearfully confessed to a one-night stand, blaming her assistant, Leo.
She even picked up a shard of broken wine glass and dragged it across her arm.
I loved her, and consumed by my own pain and desperate to save our marriage, I chose to believe her.
Two years later, Leo sat across from me in a coffee shop, smug, and ready to shatter my world.
"She played you for a fool, Ethan," he said, sliding a thick manila envelope across the table.
Inside were photographs: Olivia and Leo, together, smiling, happy.
Three years. A timeline that meant she was with him even before she "confessed."
Then came the final blow: "Our son, Ethan. He's a year old now. Looks just like me."
My world tilted, every intimate moment, every shared smile, every "I love you" of the past three years twisting into a grotesque lie.
When I confronted Olivia, her response was chilling, laced with a casual defiance that curdled my blood.
"The Hayes family doesn't do divorce," she said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling tone. "We only get widowed."
The woman I loved was a monster, seeing me as a tool, an obstacle in her elaborate scheme.
Trapped, I knew I couldn't fight her family's power.
There was only one person who could help me disappear so completely she would think I was dead.
I dialed the number to my estranged sister, Sarah, the family ghost.
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