The Wife He Destroyed

The Wife He Destroyed

Gavin

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I remember the fall. The sharp, brutal shove from my husband, David. The sickening crack as my head hit the marble staircase. The last thing I saw was his face, twisted not with remorse, but with a grief-fueled rage. His father' s last, wheezing words echoed in my ears: "She did this... Sarah... with her rabbit food..." They blamed me for their self-inflicted misery. For years, I, a dietitian, poured my soul into saving my tech mogul father-in-law, Richard Sterling, from himself. He was a man of excess, his wife enabling every destructive craving, and my husband, David, worshipping his father's stubbornness as strength. I crafted healthy meals, managed his medications, and pleaded with him to care for his own body. My reward? His constant resentment, my mother-in-law's accusations of starvation, and David's growing impatience with the "unpleasantness" I caused. I fought for his health, for our family. I got a broken neck for my efforts. They chose his dying delusion over our life together, over my life. The darkness that swallowed me was absolute, an unjust end to a life spent trying to do the right thing. Then, I felt the sunlight on my face. It was warm, a gentle caress. I opened my eyes to the familiar silk sheets of my own bed, the digital clock glowing 8:15 AM, October 12th. The day it all began, the day Richard was diagnosed with severe type 2 diabetes. I had been given a second chance. Not a chance to save him, but a chance to save myself. This time, I would do nothing. I would let him eat his cake.

Introduction

I remember the fall.

The sharp, brutal shove from my husband, David.

The sickening crack as my head hit the marble staircase.

The last thing I saw was his face, twisted not with remorse, but with a grief-fueled rage.

His father' s last, wheezing words echoed in my ears: "She did this... Sarah... with her rabbit food..."

They blamed me for their self-inflicted misery.

For years, I, a dietitian, poured my soul into saving my tech mogul father-in-law, Richard Sterling, from himself.

He was a man of excess, his wife enabling every destructive craving, and my husband, David, worshipping his father's stubbornness as strength.

I crafted healthy meals, managed his medications, and pleaded with him to care for his own body.

My reward? His constant resentment, my mother-in-law's accusations of starvation, and David's growing impatience with the "unpleasantness" I caused.

I fought for his health, for our family.

I got a broken neck for my efforts.

They chose his dying delusion over our life together, over my life.

The darkness that swallowed me was absolute, an unjust end to a life spent trying to do the right thing.

Then, I felt the sunlight on my face.

It was warm, a gentle caress.

I opened my eyes to the familiar silk sheets of my own bed, the digital clock glowing 8:15 AM, October 12th.

The day it all began, the day Richard was diagnosed with severe type 2 diabetes.

I had been given a second chance.

Not a chance to save him, but a chance to save myself.

This time, I would do nothing.

I would let him eat his cake.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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