The Fiance Who Chose Poison

The Fiance Who Chose Poison

Gavin

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The world snapped back into focus, not with the acrid smell of my own burning flesh, but the sterile scent of the ER. Just moments ago, flames engulfed me as my colleagues stood by, fire extinguishers in hand, watching me die. Now, I was whole, unscarred, alive. Then I saw her: Dr. Emily Hayes, the newly arrived resident, her eyes wide and eager. I knew that innocent smile hid poison. I had lived through it-I had died because of it. Her first "prediction" came quickly: a critically injured patient whose life she calmly declared over. Dr. Peterson, our attending physician, was furious, but her chilling words echoed when the patient died on our table, despite our best efforts. Then came the second "vision" -an ambulance crash she foresaw, just as I volunteered to take the call. My fiancé, Dr. Ryan Chen, the man I thought I knew, pulled me aside, telling me I was reckless and Emily was right. He sided with her, not me, in front of everyone. I saved that patient, defying her "prophecy," but then the ambulance Emily warned us about was found with cut brake lines. And the patient I saved died, unexpectedly, of an aneurysm. Emily' s twisted predictions found their way, solidifying her power and painting me as the one who defied fate. She whispered, "As long as Sarah Miller is working in this ER, she puts everyone in danger. Her energy, it attracts disaster." They all stared at me, their faces not with suspicion, but raw terror. They had let me burn once. Not again. This time, I would expose her.

Introduction

The world snapped back into focus, not with the acrid smell of my own burning flesh, but the sterile scent of the ER.

Just moments ago, flames engulfed me as my colleagues stood by, fire extinguishers in hand, watching me die.

Now, I was whole, unscarred, alive.

Then I saw her: Dr. Emily Hayes, the newly arrived resident, her eyes wide and eager.

I knew that innocent smile hid poison. I had lived through it-I had died because of it.

Her first "prediction" came quickly: a critically injured patient whose life she calmly declared over.

Dr. Peterson, our attending physician, was furious, but her chilling words echoed when the patient died on our table, despite our best efforts.

Then came the second "vision" -an ambulance crash she foresaw, just as I volunteered to take the call.

My fiancé, Dr. Ryan Chen, the man I thought I knew, pulled me aside, telling me I was reckless and Emily was right.

He sided with her, not me, in front of everyone.

I saved that patient, defying her "prophecy," but then the ambulance Emily warned us about was found with cut brake lines.

And the patient I saved died, unexpectedly, of an aneurysm.

Emily' s twisted predictions found their way, solidifying her power and painting me as the one who defied fate.

She whispered, "As long as Sarah Miller is working in this ER, she puts everyone in danger. Her energy, it attracts disaster."

They all stared at me, their faces not with suspicion, but raw terror.

They had let me burn once.

Not again.

This time, I would expose her.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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