His Wife's Venomous Betrayal

His Wife's Venomous Betrayal

Gavin

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The pregnancy test showed two pink lines, and pure joy surged through me. I, Ethan Miller, was finally going to be a father. But then my wife, Sophia, dropped a bomb that shattered everything. "The child isn't yours, Ethan. It's Liam's." The world tilted. My perfect life, a fragile lie built on Sophia' s deceit, crumbled. Tragedy compounded days later: Sophia was in a car accident, a miscarriage. Liam, her lover, was behind the wheel. Then, at a company gala, Sophia, radiant and cruel, seized a microphone. Her eyes, cold and furious, locked onto mine. "My husband, Ethan Miller," she announced, her voice dripping with venom, "is a monster." She publicly accused me of sabotaging her, of causing her miscarriage out of jealousy. The accusation was so monstrous, so far from the truth, I could only stand paralyzed. Her final blow: "I'm making him get a vasectomy. He will pay for what he did to my baby." They forced me into it, stripping me of my rights, my future, my very manhood. I returned home, a ghost in my own house, only to find Liam brazenly occupying my study. He flaunted his victory, mocking my pain, even using my Pritzker Prize as a coaster. Then, he shattered my most prized possession: my mother' s music box. "Oh, that old thing," Sophia said, unconcerned. "It was gathering dust. I gave it to Liam." Something inside me broke. My hand bleeding, heart shattered, I watched Sophia fuss over a supposedly ill Liam. She shrieked, "What did you do to him? What did you put in his drink? You want to take everything from me!" The doctor' s diagnosis: Liam just had a bad hangover. My pain was real, her accusation a baseless lie. Sophia offered a fleeting, empty apology, but the chasm between us was too deep. I decided then: no more. I had to fight back for my sanity, for my future, for myself.

Introduction

The pregnancy test showed two pink lines, and pure joy surged through me.

I, Ethan Miller, was finally going to be a father.

But then my wife, Sophia, dropped a bomb that shattered everything.

"The child isn't yours, Ethan. It's Liam's."

The world tilted.

My perfect life, a fragile lie built on Sophia' s deceit, crumbled.

Tragedy compounded days later: Sophia was in a car accident, a miscarriage.

Liam, her lover, was behind the wheel.

Then, at a company gala, Sophia, radiant and cruel, seized a microphone.

Her eyes, cold and furious, locked onto mine.

"My husband, Ethan Miller," she announced, her voice dripping with venom, "is a monster."

She publicly accused me of sabotaging her, of causing her miscarriage out of jealousy.

The accusation was so monstrous, so far from the truth, I could only stand paralyzed.

Her final blow: "I'm making him get a vasectomy. He will pay for what he did to my baby."

They forced me into it, stripping me of my rights, my future, my very manhood.

I returned home, a ghost in my own house, only to find Liam brazenly occupying my study.

He flaunted his victory, mocking my pain, even using my Pritzker Prize as a coaster.

Then, he shattered my most prized possession: my mother' s music box.

"Oh, that old thing," Sophia said, unconcerned. "It was gathering dust. I gave it to Liam."

Something inside me broke.

My hand bleeding, heart shattered, I watched Sophia fuss over a supposedly ill Liam.

She shrieked, "What did you do to him? What did you put in his drink? You want to take everything from me!"

The doctor' s diagnosis: Liam just had a bad hangover.

My pain was real, her accusation a baseless lie.

Sophia offered a fleeting, empty apology, but the chasm between us was too deep.

I decided then: no more.

I had to fight back for my sanity, for my future, for myself.

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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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