Scorned Wife, Sudden Fortune

Scorned Wife, Sudden Fortune

Gavin

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The world came back to me in fragments of pain, the profound exhaustion of thirty-six hours of labor. They saved me, saved my daughter, and I expected relief. Instead, I heard my husband, Ethan, from the hall, his voice light, conversational, almost cheerful. "She' s completely torn apart down there... it' s disgusting. Like a war zone." My breath caught. "And her stomach," he whispered, "It' s all loose and flabby, covered in these weird purple lines. She looks like a deflated balloon. I swear, I don' t think I can ever touch her again." My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a painful thud of realization. This was the man who had held my hand, told me I was brave. Then the other voice, "What about the kid?" A flicker of desperate hope ignited. He wanted a daughter so badly. "It' s a girl," Ethan said, his voice flat. "Lily. Cries all the time. Just another thing to deal with." The hope died. Then his tone shifted, charming, for a phone call. "I know, I wish you were here instead. I can' t wait to see you." A mistress. The late nights, the secretive calls, the growing distance I' d blamed on pregnancy stress-it all clicked into place. Tears, hot and silent, streamed from my eyes. Not sadness, but rage and a grief so profound it felt like a physical wound. He wasn' t just shallow, he was cruel. Not just a bad husband, but a monster. In that sterile, blood-scented room, I mourned my marriage, the man I thought I knew. A cold, hard decision settled in my soul, listening to him coo at his lover. My daughter would not have a father like him. I would raise her alone. This wasn' t the end of my pain, but it was the beginning of my fight.

Introduction

The world came back to me in fragments of pain, the profound exhaustion of thirty-six hours of labor.

They saved me, saved my daughter, and I expected relief.

Instead, I heard my husband, Ethan, from the hall, his voice light, conversational, almost cheerful.

"She' s completely torn apart down there... it' s disgusting. Like a war zone."

My breath caught.

"And her stomach," he whispered, "It' s all loose and flabby, covered in these weird purple lines. She looks like a deflated balloon. I swear, I don' t think I can ever touch her again."

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a painful thud of realization. This was the man who had held my hand, told me I was brave.

Then the other voice, "What about the kid?"

A flicker of desperate hope ignited. He wanted a daughter so badly.

"It' s a girl," Ethan said, his voice flat. "Lily. Cries all the time. Just another thing to deal with."

The hope died.

Then his tone shifted, charming, for a phone call. "I know, I wish you were here instead. I can' t wait to see you."

A mistress.

The late nights, the secretive calls, the growing distance I' d blamed on pregnancy stress-it all clicked into place.

Tears, hot and silent, streamed from my eyes. Not sadness, but rage and a grief so profound it felt like a physical wound.

He wasn' t just shallow, he was cruel. Not just a bad husband, but a monster.

In that sterile, blood-scented room, I mourned my marriage, the man I thought I knew.

A cold, hard decision settled in my soul, listening to him coo at his lover.

My daughter would not have a father like him.

I would raise her alone.

This wasn' t the end of my pain, but it was the beginning of my fight.

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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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