Betrayed By Love, Reborn Stronger

Betrayed By Love, Reborn Stronger

Gavin

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The scalpel felt wrong in my hand, cold and alien. "Sarah, we're ready. It's time." My husband, Dr. Mark Johnson, stood beside me, his voice a smooth, confident hum. This was the moment. The surgery on my own father. The moment that, in another life, had destroyed me completely. I dropped the scalpel. "I can't do it," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. A flash of memory, vivid and real, flooded my mind: an orange jumpsuit, camera flashes, a "Guilty" verdict. I remembered dying alone in a prison cell, my name a synonym for malpractice and murder. A monster who killed her own father on the operating table. Why was I reliving this? I'd changed things. I hadn't operated. I'd deliberately injured my hand, smashing it against a metal basin to avoid that fate. Yet here I was, surrounded by public scorn, branded a "psycho doctor" and a "murderer" by a baying mob, all orchestrated by Mark and my mother, Eleanor. They even produced a manufactured video of me botching the surgery-a doppelganger, a staged performance meant to frame me. This was my second chance, but it felt like a replay of my death. They thought they had me trapped again, burying me under fabricated evidence and public hatred. But I had a secret weapon, a desperate, wild gamble up my sleeve, a suspicion rooted in old family secrets. When the autopsy results came in, Mark and Eleanor believed they had fully sealed my fate. They brought out reports of my fingerprints on the scalpel, a massive overdose of a powerful opioid, and a fake email from my deleted files-a confession to a mercy killing for insurance money. They had built an airtight case. Despair washed over me. I was going to lose. Again. But then, a thought clicked. A distant cousin from my mother' s side. The truth began to crystallize, sickening and monstrous. My only way out was to play their game, just for a little longer. "I'll confess," I croaked, my mind racing. "But I have one condition. One last request. Just let me see him one last time. Let me say goodbye at the funeral home. Alone." They thought it was the last gasp of a defeated woman. They were wrong. This was my opening.

Introduction

The scalpel felt wrong in my hand, cold and alien. "Sarah, we're ready. It's time." My husband, Dr. Mark Johnson, stood beside me, his voice a smooth, confident hum.

This was the moment. The surgery on my own father. The moment that, in another life, had destroyed me completely. I dropped the scalpel.

"I can't do it," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. A flash of memory, vivid and real, flooded my mind: an orange jumpsuit, camera flashes, a "Guilty" verdict. I remembered dying alone in a prison cell, my name a synonym for malpractice and murder. A monster who killed her own father on the operating table.

Why was I reliving this? I'd changed things. I hadn't operated. I'd deliberately injured my hand, smashing it against a metal basin to avoid that fate. Yet here I was, surrounded by public scorn, branded a "psycho doctor" and a "murderer" by a baying mob, all orchestrated by Mark and my mother, Eleanor. They even produced a manufactured video of me botching the surgery-a doppelganger, a staged performance meant to frame me.

This was my second chance, but it felt like a replay of my death. They thought they had me trapped again, burying me under fabricated evidence and public hatred. But I had a secret weapon, a desperate, wild gamble up my sleeve, a suspicion rooted in old family secrets.

When the autopsy results came in, Mark and Eleanor believed they had fully sealed my fate. They brought out reports of my fingerprints on the scalpel, a massive overdose of a powerful opioid, and a fake email from my deleted files-a confession to a mercy killing for insurance money. They had built an airtight case.

Despair washed over me. I was going to lose. Again. But then, a thought clicked. A distant cousin from my mother' s side. The truth began to crystallize, sickening and monstrous. My only way out was to play their game, just for a little longer.

"I'll confess," I croaked, my mind racing. "But I have one condition. One last request. Just let me see him one last time. Let me say goodbye at the funeral home. Alone." They thought it was the last gasp of a defeated woman. They were wrong. This was my opening.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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