Reborn Wife: A Mother's Fury

Reborn Wife: A Mother's Fury

Gavin

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The last thing I remembered was the cold, sterile operating room. A sharp pain tore through my abdomen, and my husband Ethan's chilling indifference burned into me. "Sign it, Ethan! The doctor says she's bleeding out. They need to perform the surgery to save her!" I screamed, my voice distant and desperate. But he wouldn't. He stood there, arms crossed, saying, "The doctor said there's a risk to the baby. I can't risk my daughter's life." "There won't be a daughter if I die!" I countered, agony blurring my vision. "The baby can't survive if I don't!" Then, my six-year-old stepson, Liam, holding Ethan's hand, pointed at me. "Dad, Sophia said this woman is just faking it. She said if she dies, Sophia can be my new mom and take care of you and the baby." His words hit harder than any physical pain. My own stepson, a child I'd raised since he was two, was wishing for my death. Ethan didn't scold him. He squeezed Liam' s shoulder in silent agreement as Sophia Davis, Liam's beautiful young tutor, stepped into view with a triumphant smirk. They never signed the papers. I bled out on that operating table, my last sight the three of them-Ethan, Liam, and Sophia-already looking like a happy family. A sharp gasp snapped me awake. My eyes flew open. I was in my own bed, morning sun streaming through the silk curtains. My hand went to my stomach. It was still there, a gentle, rounded swell. My baby girl was safe. I grabbed my phone. The date confirmed it: today was the day my life unraveled. The day Liam brought Sophia home. I hadn't died. I was back. The memory of my death wasn't a dream. It was a searing brand, a horrifying premonition. The betrayal, the pain, the cold finality-all of it clear as day. A wave of nausea washed over me, not from pregnancy, but from cold, hard fury. They would not kill me this time. They would not harm my daughter. This time, I would make them pay for a crime they hadn't committed yet. Just then, the doorbell rang. I heard the housekeeper, then Liam's excited chatter. My heart turned to ice. It was starting.

Introduction

The last thing I remembered was the cold, sterile operating room.

A sharp pain tore through my abdomen, and my husband Ethan's chilling indifference burned into me.

"Sign it, Ethan! The doctor says she's bleeding out. They need to perform the surgery to save her!" I screamed, my voice distant and desperate.

But he wouldn't. He stood there, arms crossed, saying, "The doctor said there's a risk to the baby. I can't risk my daughter's life."

"There won't be a daughter if I die!" I countered, agony blurring my vision. "The baby can't survive if I don't!"

Then, my six-year-old stepson, Liam, holding Ethan's hand, pointed at me.

"Dad, Sophia said this woman is just faking it. She said if she dies, Sophia can be my new mom and take care of you and the baby."

His words hit harder than any physical pain. My own stepson, a child I'd raised since he was two, was wishing for my death.

Ethan didn't scold him. He squeezed Liam' s shoulder in silent agreement as Sophia Davis, Liam's beautiful young tutor, stepped into view with a triumphant smirk.

They never signed the papers.

I bled out on that operating table, my last sight the three of them-Ethan, Liam, and Sophia-already looking like a happy family.

A sharp gasp snapped me awake.

My eyes flew open. I was in my own bed, morning sun streaming through the silk curtains. My hand went to my stomach. It was still there, a gentle, rounded swell. My baby girl was safe.

I grabbed my phone. The date confirmed it: today was the day my life unraveled. The day Liam brought Sophia home.

I hadn't died. I was back.

The memory of my death wasn't a dream. It was a searing brand, a horrifying premonition. The betrayal, the pain, the cold finality-all of it clear as day.

A wave of nausea washed over me, not from pregnancy, but from cold, hard fury. They would not kill me this time. They would not harm my daughter. This time, I would make them pay for a crime they hadn't committed yet.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

I heard the housekeeper, then Liam's excited chatter. My heart turned to ice. It was starting.

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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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