My Wife's Betrayal, My New Beginning

My Wife's Betrayal, My New Beginning

Catlaina Sloggett

5.0
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My hands, once surgeons' hands, now trembled balancing champagne glasses at an elite medical summit. My wife, Sarah, lay in a coma, kept alive by machines. My daughter, Lily, traumatized, diagnosed with severe autism, was a ghost in our home. My career, my reputation, my life – all shattered by a malpractice suit that wasn't my fault, and an amusement park incident that left me with broken ribs and my family broken beyond repair. I poured every last cent, every ounce of my being, into their care, working menial jobs just to survive. Then, a voice announced a speaker on stage: "Dr. Sarah Miller, presenting 'New Advances in Brainstem Injury Repair'..." The name, the topic, the face I saw under the spotlight, hit me like a physical blow. It was Sarah. My Sarah. Confident, brilliant, and clearly not comatose. The champagne tray slipped. Crash. Security grabbed me, but I didn't care. "She's my wife! Sarah! She should be in the ICU right now! She's in a coma!" Her eyes, for a split second, flickered with panic before settling into cold composure. The man next to her, Andrew Sterling, CEO of Sterling Medical Group, stepped forward, handing me a business card, his face full of contempt. Whispers of their shared past, of her being his company's chief expert, swirled around me, twisting the knife. Was our entire nine-year marriage a lie? The applause for the brilliant Dr. Miller mocked my agony, making me wonder if I had been the biggest fool of all.

Introduction

My hands, once surgeons' hands, now trembled balancing champagne glasses at an elite medical summit.

My wife, Sarah, lay in a coma, kept alive by machines.

My daughter, Lily, traumatized, diagnosed with severe autism, was a ghost in our home.

My career, my reputation, my life – all shattered by a malpractice suit that wasn't my fault, and an amusement park incident that left me with broken ribs and my family broken beyond repair.

I poured every last cent, every ounce of my being, into their care, working menial jobs just to survive.

Then, a voice announced a speaker on stage: "Dr. Sarah Miller, presenting 'New Advances in Brainstem Injury Repair'..."

The name, the topic, the face I saw under the spotlight, hit me like a physical blow.

It was Sarah. My Sarah. Confident, brilliant, and clearly not comatose.

The champagne tray slipped. Crash.

Security grabbed me, but I didn't care. "She's my wife! Sarah! She should be in the ICU right now! She's in a coma!"

Her eyes, for a split second, flickered with panic before settling into cold composure.

The man next to her, Andrew Sterling, CEO of Sterling Medical Group, stepped forward, handing me a business card, his face full of contempt.

Whispers of their shared past, of her being his company's chief expert, swirled around me, twisting the knife.

Was our entire nine-year marriage a lie?

The applause for the brilliant Dr. Miller mocked my agony, making me wonder if I had been the biggest fool of all.

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Waking Up To The Mafia Don's Betrayal

Waking Up To The Mafia Don's Betrayal

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I woke up from a five-year coma, only to find my death certificate filed away—signed by my own husband. Dante Vitiello, the Don of New York, looked at me like a miracle, but he was holding the hand of another woman. Sofia Bianchi was wearing my diamonds, living in my house, and standing beside the man I had built an empire for. But the true betrayal wasn't the mistress. It was my son. When I reached out to Leo, my baby, he recoiled in terror and buried his face in Sofia's dress. "Go away!" he screamed. "Mama Sofia said you're a monster! You're a ghost!" Sofia smiled at me, a sharp, victorious blade. She didn't just steal my husband; she rewrote my son's memories to make me the villain. To protect the family alliance, Dante forced me to stay silent. When Sofia later rammed my car on the racetrack to finish the job, Dante ran past my bleeding body to comfort her over a broken nail. When she faked a fatal illness, he dragged me from my recovery bed. He forced me to donate my rare blood to save her. "Do it for the family, Elena," he said, watching the life drain out of me to fill the veins of the woman who destroyed us. That night, I didn't just leave. I erased myself. I left my wedding ring on a cliff's edge and let the world believe Elena Vitiello had finally drowned. Six months later, Dante sat in the audience of a global tech summit in Zurich, desperate to find his dead wife. I walked onto the stage in a white suit, looking him dead in the eye. "My name is Kate Harding," I announced. And I prepared to burn his world to ash.

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Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

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I stood at my mother’s open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest’s voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone—he brought Charla with him. He claimed she’d had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

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