Her Dead Husband's Betrayal

Her Dead Husband's Betrayal

Gavin

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My husband, Mark Reynolds, was dead. The news hit me like a physical blow, but the real shock came when the funeral home director handed me a notice. Mark owed five million dollars. Five million. We were always struggling, barely making rent. Now, he was gone, leaving me and our five-year-old son, Leo, with an impossible debt. My best friend, Jessica Miller, put her arm around my shoulder, her voice dripping with concern. "Liv, you can' t do this. You have to renounce the inheritance. Think about Leo." I knew this moment. The exact moment it all went wrong before. In my past life, I listened. I signed away everything, desperate to escape the debt. But the debt collectors came anyway. They didn't care about the law. They took Leo. They sent me a small, bloody box. A single, tiny finger bone. My son was murdered. I was trafficked, sold into a hellhole in Myanmar. Years later, I saw a news report. Mark wasn't the broke man I knew. He was the founder of a multi-billion-dollar global conglomerate. His estate, tens of billions, was going to his sole heir. A young boy, standing next to his mother. The mother was Jessica Miller. The boy was her son, Ethan. My best friend, my husband, their son. My life, my poverty, my son' s death-it was all a lie. A sick game they played to ensure her child got everything. The rage burned me alive. I found a way to end my life, seething with impotent hatred. And then, I opened my eyes. The sterile scent of the funeral home. Leo, alive, his small, warm hand in mine. Jessica, standing right in front of me, her face a mask of perfect concern. "Liv, you can' t do this," she said. "You have to renounce the inheritance. Think about Leo." It was the same day. The same moment. This time, I would not make the same mistake. This time, I would claim what was mine. I would burn her world to the ground.

Introduction

My husband, Mark Reynolds, was dead.

The news hit me like a physical blow, but the real shock came when the funeral home director handed me a notice.

Mark owed five million dollars.

Five million. We were always struggling, barely making rent. Now, he was gone, leaving me and our five-year-old son, Leo, with an impossible debt.

My best friend, Jessica Miller, put her arm around my shoulder, her voice dripping with concern.

"Liv, you can' t do this. You have to renounce the inheritance. Think about Leo."

I knew this moment. The exact moment it all went wrong before. In my past life, I listened. I signed away everything, desperate to escape the debt.

But the debt collectors came anyway. They didn't care about the law.

They took Leo. They sent me a small, bloody box.

A single, tiny finger bone.

My son was murdered. I was trafficked, sold into a hellhole in Myanmar.

Years later, I saw a news report. Mark wasn't the broke man I knew. He was the founder of a multi-billion-dollar global conglomerate. His estate, tens of billions, was going to his sole heir.

A young boy, standing next to his mother.

The mother was Jessica Miller.

The boy was her son, Ethan.

My best friend, my husband, their son. My life, my poverty, my son' s death-it was all a lie. A sick game they played to ensure her child got everything.

The rage burned me alive. I found a way to end my life, seething with impotent hatred.

And then, I opened my eyes.

The sterile scent of the funeral home. Leo, alive, his small, warm hand in mine. Jessica, standing right in front of me, her face a mask of perfect concern.

"Liv, you can' t do this," she said. "You have to renounce the inheritance. Think about Leo."

It was the same day. The same moment.

This time, I would not make the same mistake. This time, I would claim what was mine.

I would burn her world to the ground.

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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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