A Woman Scorned Rises

A Woman Scorned Rises

Gavin

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He spent $9.99 million to put my name, Chloe Miller, on every billboard in Times Square. "Chloe, marry me." The proposal of the century, they called it. For ten years, I had been the perfect fiancée to Liam Sterling, heir to an empire. That proposal was supposed to be our grand finale. Then he vanished. Thirty days of chilling silence, broken only by paparazzi photos. Liam, in Paris, Rome, Tokyo – with her, Sarah Jenkins, his "white moonlight." The tabloids spun a tragic romance: Sarah, terminally ill; Liam, the noble savior on a farewell world tour. He became a saint. I became a footnote. Today, they returned. I stood at the private jet terminal, not to cry, but to end it. He strode out, tanned and relaxed, she frail and clinging. "Chloe," he said, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "What are you doing here?" "We're over, Liam." Sarah peeked from behind him, watery-eyed. "Chloe, please don't be mad at Liam. It's all my fault. I just wanted to see the world one last time before I go." Her performance was flawless. But I saw the healthy glow beneath her pale skin. "Upset her?" I asked, my voice dripping acid. "She looks healthier than I do." I held up my phone, showing a lab report. "Sarah, according to this, you are in perfect health. Not a single marker for any terminal illness." Liam snatched the phone. "Chloe, stop it! You've lost your mind! You're being cruel and manipulative!" He didn't want to believe me. His eyes, once full of trust, now saw me as a monster. "There's a sick woman who needs me," he said, stroking Sarah' s hair. "And then there's you, acting like a psycho." He offered me a crumb: "We'll get married as planned. Just... give me some time to handle this." He thought he could have us both. But looking at the man I had loved for ten years, I felt nothing. No, I thought. We will not be getting married. Not now. Not ever. I walked away, leaving him standing there. He didn't believe I would actually leave. He would soon learn just how wrong he was.

Introduction

He spent $9.99 million to put my name, Chloe Miller, on every billboard in Times Square.

"Chloe, marry me."

The proposal of the century, they called it.

For ten years, I had been the perfect fiancée to Liam Sterling, heir to an empire.

That proposal was supposed to be our grand finale.

Then he vanished.

Thirty days of chilling silence, broken only by paparazzi photos.

Liam, in Paris, Rome, Tokyo – with her, Sarah Jenkins, his "white moonlight."

The tabloids spun a tragic romance: Sarah, terminally ill; Liam, the noble savior on a farewell world tour.

He became a saint. I became a footnote.

Today, they returned.

I stood at the private jet terminal, not to cry, but to end it.

He strode out, tanned and relaxed, she frail and clinging.

"Chloe," he said, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"We're over, Liam."

Sarah peeked from behind him, watery-eyed.

"Chloe, please don't be mad at Liam. It's all my fault. I just wanted to see the world one last time before I go."

Her performance was flawless.

But I saw the healthy glow beneath her pale skin.

"Upset her?" I asked, my voice dripping acid. "She looks healthier than I do."

I held up my phone, showing a lab report.

"Sarah, according to this, you are in perfect health. Not a single marker for any terminal illness."

Liam snatched the phone. "Chloe, stop it! You've lost your mind! You're being cruel and manipulative!"

He didn't want to believe me.

His eyes, once full of trust, now saw me as a monster.

"There's a sick woman who needs me," he said, stroking Sarah' s hair. "And then there's you, acting like a psycho."

He offered me a crumb: "We'll get married as planned. Just... give me some time to handle this."

He thought he could have us both.

But looking at the man I had loved for ten years, I felt nothing.

No, I thought. We will not be getting married. Not now. Not ever.

I walked away, leaving him standing there.

He didn't believe I would actually leave. He would soon learn just how wrong he was.

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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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