His Betrayal, My Unmaking, Her Crime

His Betrayal, My Unmaking, Her Crime

Gavin

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The sterile scent of my forensic lab usually brought me comfort, an oasis where I rebuilt lives from bone. Tonight, it felt like a heavy shroud. As a forensic artist, I was nearing completion on Case 734-a "Jane Doe" skull-when her face, slowly emerging from the clay, tightened my stomach with sickening recognition. It was Eleanor Blackwood, my fiancé Ryan' s mother, vanished two years ago. I reached for my phone, hand trembling, to tell him the impossible truth: I' d found his missing mother' s remains. Before I could dial, the lab door creaked open, revealing two ski-masked figures; a primal fear choked me. A foul-smelling cloth descended, and the world went black. I woke to searing pain, the stench of blood, and pulsing music. My face a swollen mess, I was dragged to a brightly lit stage-a boxing ring built for a depraved spectacle. Then I saw him, leaning against the ropes: Ryan, my fiancé, laughing, his arm wrapped around Chloe Davis' s waist, kissing her. He swept his eyes over the stage, over me, without a flicker of recognition. To him, I was just "entertainment." "She' s a forensic artist! Think she can reconstruct her own face after tonight?" someone yelled, their words twisting my life' s purpose into a grotesque joke. He drunkenly slurred about needing to "blow off steam" before our wedding, then, goaded by Chloe, bought me for ten thousand dollars, his eyes filled with hatred for the "toy" who dared to "disrespect" him. He paid to destroy the woman carrying his child. And he was proud of it.

Introduction

The sterile scent of my forensic lab usually brought me comfort, an oasis where I rebuilt lives from bone. Tonight, it felt like a heavy shroud.

As a forensic artist, I was nearing completion on Case 734-a "Jane Doe" skull-when her face, slowly emerging from the clay, tightened my stomach with sickening recognition.

It was Eleanor Blackwood, my fiancé Ryan' s mother, vanished two years ago. I reached for my phone, hand trembling, to tell him the impossible truth: I' d found his missing mother' s remains.

Before I could dial, the lab door creaked open, revealing two ski-masked figures; a primal fear choked me. A foul-smelling cloth descended, and the world went black.

I woke to searing pain, the stench of blood, and pulsing music. My face a swollen mess, I was dragged to a brightly lit stage-a boxing ring built for a depraved spectacle.

Then I saw him, leaning against the ropes: Ryan, my fiancé, laughing, his arm wrapped around Chloe Davis' s waist, kissing her. He swept his eyes over the stage, over me, without a flicker of recognition. To him, I was just "entertainment."

"She' s a forensic artist! Think she can reconstruct her own face after tonight?" someone yelled, their words twisting my life' s purpose into a grotesque joke.

He drunkenly slurred about needing to "blow off steam" before our wedding, then, goaded by Chloe, bought me for ten thousand dollars, his eyes filled with hatred for the "toy" who dared to "disrespect" him.

He paid to destroy the woman carrying his child. And he was proud of it.

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When Love Turns to Ash

When Love Turns to Ash

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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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