The Wedding That Never Was

The Wedding That Never Was

Gavin

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The last thing I remembered was the cold, seeping into my bones on the operating table, as doctors frantically tried to stop the hemorrhaging. Then, the words that shattered my world: "The baby... the baby can' t be saved." My baby, gone. And in a flash, I remembered my husband Liam' s venomous sneer just hours before, "If it' s some other man' s bastard, I' ll kill it myself." The pain of his words, worse than labor, twisted my love for my adoptive brother into pure hatred. I believed he had killed our child. Consumed by rage, I seized a scalpel and plunged it into his chest, gasping, "If my child dies, you' re dying with him." His eyes widened in despair, not anger, as consciousness faded. His frantic shouts echoed, "Save her! Get the best doctors... And find her the best lawyer... Don' t let her find out about her father. Let her hate me forever." Tears fell onto my cheek, hot and foreign. My father? What did he have to do with this? Then, darkness. "Do you, Ava Miller, take this man, Liam Hayes, to be your lawfully wedded husband?" My eyes snapped open. The blinding white of the operating room was gone. I was at the altar, clutching white roses, in a heavy wedding dress. Liam stood before me, young and handsome, looking exactly as he had ten years ago. Our wedding day. The day my nightmare began. I was back. He leaned in, his voice a low, impatient hiss, "Ava, what are you doing? Say 'I do.' Don' t make a scene." The same cold tone, the same barely-veiled annoyance. Nothing had changed. I saw Sarah Johnson in the second row, feigning heartbreak, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. Liam' s innocent victim. Then it all crashed down. Liam' s final words, his protection, Sarah' s true manipulation, my father' s death-it was all a misunderstanding, a mountain of lies. I had died because of it once. I wouldn't walk back into that cage. "No. I don' t."

Introduction

The last thing I remembered was the cold, seeping into my bones on the operating table, as doctors frantically tried to stop the hemorrhaging.

Then, the words that shattered my world: "The baby... the baby can' t be saved."

My baby, gone. And in a flash, I remembered my husband Liam' s venomous sneer just hours before, "If it' s some other man' s bastard, I' ll kill it myself."

The pain of his words, worse than labor, twisted my love for my adoptive brother into pure hatred. I believed he had killed our child.

Consumed by rage, I seized a scalpel and plunged it into his chest, gasping, "If my child dies, you' re dying with him."

His eyes widened in despair, not anger, as consciousness faded.

His frantic shouts echoed, "Save her! Get the best doctors... And find her the best lawyer... Don' t let her find out about her father. Let her hate me forever."

Tears fell onto my cheek, hot and foreign. My father? What did he have to do with this?

Then, darkness.

"Do you, Ava Miller, take this man, Liam Hayes, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

My eyes snapped open. The blinding white of the operating room was gone. I was at the altar, clutching white roses, in a heavy wedding dress.

Liam stood before me, young and handsome, looking exactly as he had ten years ago.

Our wedding day. The day my nightmare began. I was back.

He leaned in, his voice a low, impatient hiss, "Ava, what are you doing? Say 'I do.' Don' t make a scene."

The same cold tone, the same barely-veiled annoyance. Nothing had changed.

I saw Sarah Johnson in the second row, feigning heartbreak, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. Liam' s innocent victim.

Then it all crashed down. Liam' s final words, his protection, Sarah' s true manipulation, my father' s death-it was all a misunderstanding, a mountain of lies.

I had died because of it once. I wouldn't walk back into that cage.

"No. I don' t."

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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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