Rejected By Family, Reborn By Love

Rejected By Family, Reborn By Love

Gavin

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Dr. Chen looked at my patent transfer agreement, concerned. "Ava, are you absolutely sure? This patent is your life's work." I was sure; it was my only way to shield it from my family. They saw my success not as pride, but as a resource for Willow, my foster sister, who masterfully painted me as selfish to my father, Richard, and brother, Ethan. My cherished belongings vanished, ending up with Willow, while my room-the one with the best light-was given to her for her "artistic sensibilities," banishing me to the cramped attic. Then came the day I signed the patent away. I returned home to a surprise party for Willow, celebrating her art grant. They had forgotten it was the anniversary of my mother's passing. My fiancé, Liam, usually my partner, stood by Willow, his arm possessively around her. My father, beaming, said, "Ava, perfect timing! Willow needs your help. You're going to give her the patent." I stared, disbelief chilling me. "It's a medical patent. It has nothing to do with art or business. And it's not for sale." Willow burst into tears, claiming Liam said I'd agreed to surprise her. Liam mumbled a pathetic "It's for the family." Then, Willow brought out a mango mousse cake-a deadly allergy for me. Liam, irritated, snapped, "Just for once, can you not make everything about you?" Willow, the kicked puppy, apologized, claiming forgetfulness, and turned to my father, who raged at me. "Look what you did, you ungrateful child! You will sign over that patent and apologize to Willow!" When I refused, he slapped and shoved me. I fell, my face landing squarely in the cake. Anaphylaxis set in immediately. I gasped for air, crawling for my EpiPen, as they watched me-my father, Ethan, Willow, and Liam-all stood by, watching me die. As blessed air trickled back into my lungs, one thought solidified: I'm leaving, and I am never, ever coming back.

Introduction

Dr. Chen looked at my patent transfer agreement, concerned. "Ava, are you absolutely sure? This patent is your life's work." I was sure; it was my only way to shield it from my family. They saw my success not as pride, but as a resource for Willow, my foster sister, who masterfully painted me as selfish to my father, Richard, and brother, Ethan. My cherished belongings vanished, ending up with Willow, while my room-the one with the best light-was given to her for her "artistic sensibilities," banishing me to the cramped attic.

Then came the day I signed the patent away. I returned home to a surprise party for Willow, celebrating her art grant. They had forgotten it was the anniversary of my mother's passing. My fiancé, Liam, usually my partner, stood by Willow, his arm possessively around her. My father, beaming, said, "Ava, perfect timing! Willow needs your help. You're going to give her the patent."

I stared, disbelief chilling me. "It's a medical patent. It has nothing to do with art or business. And it's not for sale." Willow burst into tears, claiming Liam said I'd agreed to surprise her. Liam mumbled a pathetic "It's for the family." Then, Willow brought out a mango mousse cake-a deadly allergy for me. Liam, irritated, snapped, "Just for once, can you not make everything about you?" Willow, the kicked puppy, apologized, claiming forgetfulness, and turned to my father, who raged at me.

"Look what you did, you ungrateful child! You will sign over that patent and apologize to Willow!" When I refused, he slapped and shoved me. I fell, my face landing squarely in the cake. Anaphylaxis set in immediately. I gasped for air, crawling for my EpiPen, as they watched me-my father, Ethan, Willow, and Liam-all stood by, watching me die.

As blessed air trickled back into my lungs, one thought solidified: I'm leaving, and I am never, ever coming back.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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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