No Turning Back, Ethan

No Turning Back, Ethan

Gavin

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The scent of lemon cleaner usually filled our home, a fresh reminder of the life my husband Ethan and I built. But returning from my architecture conference, I was hit by Chloe' s cloying perfume, a scent that tasted like a premonition. I found my best friend Chloe on my sofa, eyes red, trembling as she confessed: "I slept with Ethan... on your wedding night. And Ava... I' m pregnant." Then came the weapon-a positive pregnancy test and a deepfake video, my face superimposed on hers, titled "homewrecker" by an online mob. My world shattered as Ethan walked in, rushing to Chloe, shielding her with promises of protection, his eyes cold when they met mine. He chose her, the baby that wasn' t mine, and watched as a rock shattered our window, screams of "homewrecker" filling the air. I ran, but they caught me, fists and feet raining down, Ethan' s voice shouting Chloe' s name, not mine, as I blacked out. Waking in a hospital, bruised and broken, I instinctively went home, only to find Ethan feeding Chloe grapes, treating her like royalty. He dismissed my injuries, stating coolly, "You' re a private person, you can recover. Chloe' s reputation was on the line; this would have destroyed her." The man I loved saw me as a calculable loss, my safety less valuable than an influencer' s social media career. The audacity of his request that I accept his pregnant mistress into our home for the "baby' s sake" made my blood run cold. He even used the unborn child as a weapon against me, threatening my guilt if anything happened to it. But the anger, the ultimate betrayal, ignited something in me, a cold, clear certainty. I zipped my suitcase shut, the sound a definitive end. "Get out of my way, Ethan," I demanded, no longer pleading, no longer afraid. He stood stunned, his manipulation failing. "I' m leaving this house. And I am never, ever coming back."

Introduction

The scent of lemon cleaner usually filled our home, a fresh reminder of the life my husband Ethan and I built.

But returning from my architecture conference, I was hit by Chloe' s cloying perfume, a scent that tasted like a premonition.

I found my best friend Chloe on my sofa, eyes red, trembling as she confessed: "I slept with Ethan... on your wedding night. And Ava... I' m pregnant."

Then came the weapon-a positive pregnancy test and a deepfake video, my face superimposed on hers, titled "homewrecker" by an online mob.

My world shattered as Ethan walked in, rushing to Chloe, shielding her with promises of protection, his eyes cold when they met mine.

He chose her, the baby that wasn' t mine, and watched as a rock shattered our window, screams of "homewrecker" filling the air.

I ran, but they caught me, fists and feet raining down, Ethan' s voice shouting Chloe' s name, not mine, as I blacked out.

Waking in a hospital, bruised and broken, I instinctively went home, only to find Ethan feeding Chloe grapes, treating her like royalty.

He dismissed my injuries, stating coolly, "You' re a private person, you can recover. Chloe' s reputation was on the line; this would have destroyed her."

The man I loved saw me as a calculable loss, my safety less valuable than an influencer' s social media career.

The audacity of his request that I accept his pregnant mistress into our home for the "baby' s sake" made my blood run cold.

He even used the unborn child as a weapon against me, threatening my guilt if anything happened to it.

But the anger, the ultimate betrayal, ignited something in me, a cold, clear certainty.

I zipped my suitcase shut, the sound a definitive end.

"Get out of my way, Ethan," I demanded, no longer pleading, no longer afraid.

He stood stunned, his manipulation failing.

"I' m leaving this house. And I am never, ever coming back."

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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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