Second Chance At A Loveless Marriage

Second Chance At A Loveless Marriage

Gavin

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The antiseptic smell of my deathbed couldn't mask the stench of betrayal. My wife, Emily, played the grieving spouse, her tears a performance, her whispers to her lover, Daniel, charting my demise. "He's not going to make it through the night. I'll be free soon, my love." That name, Daniel Sterling, a family friend I admired, shattered my world faster than my failing heart. My final sight was Emily's beautiful, lying face, cold and irritated by my inconvenient death. Then, blinding light. I gasped, sucking in real air, not in a hospital, but my old bedroom, decades younger, strong, unblemished hands. It was real. I was back. Memories of my first life flooded me: the loveless marriage, the quiet sacrifices, the children who weren't mine. Then, the pivotal memory from this timeline, the one that started it all: a party, too much to drink, Emily crying, pregnant, my naive proposal driven by a sense of duty, a lie. She was already carrying Daniel's child, using me as a shield to protect his budding career. The bedroom door creaked open. "Ethan? Are you awake?" It was Emily, radiant and innocent, carrying breakfast, her hand reaching for my forehead with the same feigned care from my deathbed. I flinched from her touch. "Emily," I said, my voice cold, "We need to talk about the wedding." Her smile faltered as I flatly stated, "I don't think we should get married." Her crocodile tears flowed, "I love you, Ethan!" she whimpered. "Don't," I warned, her words now poison. She played her trump card, placing her hand on her stomach. "I'm... I'm pregnant, Ethan. It's your baby." I almost laughed, knowing the truth this time. "Emily has always been like a sister to me," I announced, loud enough for our families downstairs to hear. "I'll always care for her." Her face, pure unadulterated panic, confirmed it. The game had just begun, and this time, I was making the rules.

Introduction

The antiseptic smell of my deathbed couldn't mask the stench of betrayal.

My wife, Emily, played the grieving spouse, her tears a performance, her whispers to her lover, Daniel, charting my demise.

"He's not going to make it through the night. I'll be free soon, my love."

That name, Daniel Sterling, a family friend I admired, shattered my world faster than my failing heart.

My final sight was Emily's beautiful, lying face, cold and irritated by my inconvenient death.

Then, blinding light. I gasped, sucking in real air, not in a hospital, but my old bedroom, decades younger, strong, unblemished hands.

It was real. I was back.

Memories of my first life flooded me: the loveless marriage, the quiet sacrifices, the children who weren't mine.

Then, the pivotal memory from this timeline, the one that started it all: a party, too much to drink, Emily crying, pregnant, my naive proposal driven by a sense of duty, a lie.

She was already carrying Daniel's child, using me as a shield to protect his budding career.

The bedroom door creaked open. "Ethan? Are you awake?"

It was Emily, radiant and innocent, carrying breakfast, her hand reaching for my forehead with the same feigned care from my deathbed.

I flinched from her touch. "Emily," I said, my voice cold, "We need to talk about the wedding."

Her smile faltered as I flatly stated, "I don't think we should get married."

Her crocodile tears flowed, "I love you, Ethan!" she whimpered.

"Don't," I warned, her words now poison.

She played her trump card, placing her hand on her stomach. "I'm... I'm pregnant, Ethan. It's your baby."

I almost laughed, knowing the truth this time.

"Emily has always been like a sister to me," I announced, loud enough for our families downstairs to hear. "I'll always care for her."

Her face, pure unadulterated panic, confirmed it. The game had just begun, and this time, I was making the rules.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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