Betrayal's Scars, A New Beginning

Betrayal's Scars, A New Beginning

Gavin

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Today was my ninth wedding anniversary, and I lay in a hospital bed, recovering from a hysterectomy. My husband, Mark, sent a diamond necklace, but instead of him, a young woman' s voice answered his phone. "This is Emily. Please, don' t do this to Mark." Her tearful plea implied she had picked out my anniversary gift with him. He then agreed to a divorce-eagerly, relieved-hanging up before I could speak. He never showed up at the courthouse. He promised to meet me. He broke that promise. Two months later, he stumbled home, drunk, offering me a luxury watch as if it could erase his betrayal. "A divorce? We' re not getting a divorce," he slurred. I saw him days later, laughing intimately with Emily at a café, while I was dealing with more than just a broken marriage. "I have uterine cancer." The words were out, shattering the fragile peace. "You have cancer and you' re telling me now? How could you keep that from me?" he shouted, not out of concern, but anger at how it looked. He raged about losing control, about how this affected him, not once asking about my pain. I had been alone in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery, while he was at a gala with Emily, the "close companion," the night of my surgery. He thought I was making a scene, when he was the one who had brought Emily to his parents' home, to Lily' s birthday party. His mother praised Emily, who' d planned my daughter' s party. They all stood there, a united front: Mark, his parents, and his mistress, making me the villain. His cruelty was breathtaking. "She' s just bitter," he announced to the silent room. "She' s bitter because she' s not a complete woman anymore. She had to have a hysterectomy. She has cancer. She can' t have any more children. She' s broken." He had taken my deepest vulnerability, my illness, and used it as a weapon to humiliate me publicly. Something inside me snapped. I slapped him, hard, the sound echoing through the stunned silence. Emily shrieked and lunged, but I sidestepped, and she crashed into a table. "It' s all yours," I said, my voice ringing with finality. "You can have him. You can have this whole rotten family. We' re done." I walked out, hand in hand with my daughter, leaving the wreckage behind.

Introduction

Today was my ninth wedding anniversary, and I lay in a hospital bed, recovering from a hysterectomy.

My husband, Mark, sent a diamond necklace, but instead of him, a young woman' s voice answered his phone.

"This is Emily. Please, don' t do this to Mark."

Her tearful plea implied she had picked out my anniversary gift with him.

He then agreed to a divorce-eagerly, relieved-hanging up before I could speak.

He never showed up at the courthouse.

He promised to meet me. He broke that promise.

Two months later, he stumbled home, drunk, offering me a luxury watch as if it could erase his betrayal.

"A divorce? We' re not getting a divorce," he slurred.

I saw him days later, laughing intimately with Emily at a café, while I was dealing with more than just a broken marriage.

"I have uterine cancer."

The words were out, shattering the fragile peace.

"You have cancer and you' re telling me now? How could you keep that from me?" he shouted, not out of concern, but anger at how it looked.

He raged about losing control, about how this affected him, not once asking about my pain.

I had been alone in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery, while he was at a gala with Emily, the "close companion," the night of my surgery.

He thought I was making a scene, when he was the one who had brought Emily to his parents' home, to Lily' s birthday party.

His mother praised Emily, who' d planned my daughter' s party.

They all stood there, a united front: Mark, his parents, and his mistress, making me the villain.

His cruelty was breathtaking.

"She' s just bitter," he announced to the silent room. "She' s bitter because she' s not a complete woman anymore. She had to have a hysterectomy. She has cancer. She can' t have any more children. She' s broken."

He had taken my deepest vulnerability, my illness, and used it as a weapon to humiliate me publicly.

Something inside me snapped.

I slapped him, hard, the sound echoing through the stunned silence.

Emily shrieked and lunged, but I sidestepped, and she crashed into a table.

"It' s all yours," I said, my voice ringing with finality. "You can have him. You can have this whole rotten family. We' re done."

I walked out, hand in hand with my daughter, leaving the wreckage behind.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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5.0

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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