The Marriage Built on Lies

The Marriage Built on Lies

Gavin

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The day my parents told me I was transferring schools, my world ended for the first time. "Leo is a bad influence. A musician with no future, and he's too old for you," my mother stated, her lips a thin, unforgiving line. Two weeks later, I was adrift in the sterile halls of Northgate Prep, an art portfolio heavy in my hand, feeling like a ghost. Then I met Ethan. He seemed to light up the gray afternoon, a kind, talented musician who understood my dreams of New York and the Ashton Conservatory. Our pact to conquer the city together felt like a promise of a masterpiece. But the night before our audition, he handed me a "herbal supplement" that made the world tilt. I remember his whispered "I'm sorry, Chloe" just before he left me disoriented and helpless in a dark, grimy alley. I woke up to a pounding head, a filthy, torn dress, and a missed audition. A video of me, vulnerable and incoherent in that alley, had gone viral. My mother disowned me, her rage shaking the very foundations of my life. My quiet father, broken, showed me a text from an unknown number: "How does it feel to see your daughter's future ruined?" Five years passed in a haze of medication and therapists, the vibrant artist replaced by a frightened woman. I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD-a living ghost of the girl I once was. Why me? What had really happened that night? Then, Ethan reappeared. He found me in my squalid apartment, filled with profound sadness, and took me in, promising to fix everything. He cared for me, he loved me, or so I thought, as he meticulously rebuilt the gilded cage around my shattered life.

Introduction

The day my parents told me I was transferring schools, my world ended for the first time.

"Leo is a bad influence. A musician with no future, and he's too old for you," my mother stated, her lips a thin, unforgiving line.

Two weeks later, I was adrift in the sterile halls of Northgate Prep, an art portfolio heavy in my hand, feeling like a ghost.

Then I met Ethan.

He seemed to light up the gray afternoon, a kind, talented musician who understood my dreams of New York and the Ashton Conservatory.

Our pact to conquer the city together felt like a promise of a masterpiece.

But the night before our audition, he handed me a "herbal supplement" that made the world tilt.

I remember his whispered "I'm sorry, Chloe" just before he left me disoriented and helpless in a dark, grimy alley.

I woke up to a pounding head, a filthy, torn dress, and a missed audition.

A video of me, vulnerable and incoherent in that alley, had gone viral.

My mother disowned me, her rage shaking the very foundations of my life.

My quiet father, broken, showed me a text from an unknown number: "How does it feel to see your daughter's future ruined?"

Five years passed in a haze of medication and therapists, the vibrant artist replaced by a frightened woman.

I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD-a living ghost of the girl I once was.

Why me? What had really happened that night?

Then, Ethan reappeared. He found me in my squalid apartment, filled with profound sadness, and took me in, promising to fix everything.

He cared for me, he loved me, or so I thought, as he meticulously rebuilt the gilded cage around my shattered life.

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