Eight Years, One Betrayal

Eight Years, One Betrayal

Gavin

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For eight years, I, Chloe Davis, lived in the shadows, pouring my soul into Liam Stone's music, ghostwriting his hits, and supporting his every dream. I was his secret girlfriend, enduring hidden holidays and hushed dinners, all for the promise that one day, he' d reveal me as the woman he loved. Tonight was supposed to be that night. But as Liam stood on the glittering stage of the Starlight Music Awards, clutching the "Best New Artist" trophy, his eyes scanned the crowd not for me, but for stunning, famous Scarlett Blake. "My inspiration, my muse," he declared, beaming at her. Then, the crushing blow: "Scarlett, darling, once I solidify my A-list status, I' m yours forever." My world went silent. The eight years of sacrifice, my unseen labor, my unwavering devotion-all erased by a public declaration meant for another woman. He celebrated with champagne and victory, completely oblivious to the hollow ache in my chest, the numb limb that was finally acknowledged as dead. He called my quietness a flaw in his perfect evening. He thought a diamond necklace could fix it. He thought his casual affair, texting Scarlett the night of his triumph, would go unnoticed. He still believed there was an "us." I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just packed. I was no longer the girl who loved him more than herself. That 18-year-old was gone. The 28-year-old Chloe, the one who just sold her entire song catalog, was done being a stepping stone. This was over. He didn't know it yet, but his secret weapon had just become his biggest threat.

Introduction

For eight years, I, Chloe Davis, lived in the shadows, pouring my soul into Liam Stone's music, ghostwriting his hits, and supporting his every dream. I was his secret girlfriend, enduring hidden holidays and hushed dinners, all for the promise that one day, he' d reveal me as the woman he loved. Tonight was supposed to be that night.

But as Liam stood on the glittering stage of the Starlight Music Awards, clutching the "Best New Artist" trophy, his eyes scanned the crowd not for me, but for stunning, famous Scarlett Blake. "My inspiration, my muse," he declared, beaming at her. Then, the crushing blow: "Scarlett, darling, once I solidify my A-list status, I' m yours forever."

My world went silent. The eight years of sacrifice, my unseen labor, my unwavering devotion-all erased by a public declaration meant for another woman. He celebrated with champagne and victory, completely oblivious to the hollow ache in my chest, the numb limb that was finally acknowledged as dead. He called my quietness a flaw in his perfect evening.

He thought a diamond necklace could fix it. He thought his casual affair, texting Scarlett the night of his triumph, would go unnoticed. He still believed there was an "us." I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just packed.

I was no longer the girl who loved him more than herself. That 18-year-old was gone. The 28-year-old Chloe, the one who just sold her entire song catalog, was done being a stepping stone. This was over. He didn't know it yet, but his secret weapon had just become his biggest threat.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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