Broken Ties, Shattered Dreams

Broken Ties, Shattered Dreams

Gavin

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For eighteen years, the Miller mansion was my sanctuary, a gilded cage built with the love of my adoptive father, Richard, and my brother, Ethan. My top-floor studio, overlooking the city, was my universe, filled with their unwavering support for my art and their endless affection. Then Tiffany arrived, Richard' s biological daughter, a ghost from his past. I welcomed her, eager for a sister, but the dream shattered almost overnight. One night, Richard gave me a beautiful, antique paintbrush-a cherished gift. But a single, perfectly timed tear from Tiffany, a trembling voice whispering about her deceased mother, instantly shifted the narrative. Suddenly, I was the villain, my joy overshadowed by her fabricated grief. Richard took the brush back, Ethan consoled her, and I was left with a cold, heavy stone in my chest. This was just the beginning. Soon, the Miller Corporation faced ruin, and I, their beloved adopted daughter, became a commodity. My family, the men who had once adored me, arranged my marriage to a stranger to save their empire. They saw a necessary sacrifice, not a heartbroken daughter. When I fled to my Uncle David, he offered escape, a life devoted to my art. But I believed it was my last act of loyalty to the family I once loved. That night, on the grand staircase, Tiffany ensured my "loyalty" came with a price. She faked a stumble, pushed me, and sent me sprawling, my ankle twisting in agony on the marble floor. Richard and Ethan rushed to her side, not mine. "Chloe, what is wrong with you? Your jealousy is going to destroy this family!" Richard roared, his face a mask of cold fury. They saw only Tiffany' s tears, never my pain, my twisted ankle, or the innocent truth. In that moment, something inside me broke for good. The marriage wasn' t a sacrifice anymore. It was an escape, a desperate flight from a family that no longer saw me.

Introduction

For eighteen years, the Miller mansion was my sanctuary, a gilded cage built with the love of my adoptive father, Richard, and my brother, Ethan.

My top-floor studio, overlooking the city, was my universe, filled with their unwavering support for my art and their endless affection.

Then Tiffany arrived, Richard' s biological daughter, a ghost from his past.

I welcomed her, eager for a sister, but the dream shattered almost overnight.

One night, Richard gave me a beautiful, antique paintbrush-a cherished gift.

But a single, perfectly timed tear from Tiffany, a trembling voice whispering about her deceased mother, instantly shifted the narrative.

Suddenly, I was the villain, my joy overshadowed by her fabricated grief.

Richard took the brush back, Ethan consoled her, and I was left with a cold, heavy stone in my chest.

This was just the beginning.

Soon, the Miller Corporation faced ruin, and I, their beloved adopted daughter, became a commodity.

My family, the men who had once adored me, arranged my marriage to a stranger to save their empire.

They saw a necessary sacrifice, not a heartbroken daughter.

When I fled to my Uncle David, he offered escape, a life devoted to my art.

But I believed it was my last act of loyalty to the family I once loved.

That night, on the grand staircase, Tiffany ensured my "loyalty" came with a price.

She faked a stumble, pushed me, and sent me sprawling, my ankle twisting in agony on the marble floor.

Richard and Ethan rushed to her side, not mine.

"Chloe, what is wrong with you? Your jealousy is going to destroy this family!" Richard roared, his face a mask of cold fury.

They saw only Tiffany' s tears, never my pain, my twisted ankle, or the innocent truth.

In that moment, something inside me broke for good.

The marriage wasn' t a sacrifice anymore.

It was an escape, a desperate flight from a family that no longer saw me.

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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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