From Cliffside Betrayal to Unbreakable Love

Name: From Cliffside Betrayal to Unbreakable Love
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Gavin

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My husband of five years, Mark, told me he was taking me on a romantic clifftop picnic. He poured me a glass of champagne, his smile as warm as the sun. He said it was to celebrate our life together. But as I admired the view, his hands slammed into my back. The world dissolved into a blur of sky and rock as I plunged toward the ravine below. I woke up broken and bleeding, just in time to hear his voice above. He wasn't alone. It was his mistress, Chloe. "Is she... gone?" she asked. "She fell a long way," Mark's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "No one could survive that. By the time they find the body, it'll look like a tragic accident. Poor, unstable Clara, wandering too close to the edge." The casual cruelty of his words was worse than the impact. He had already written my obituary, crafting the narrative of my demise while leaving me to die in the storm. A wave of despair washed over me, but then something else ignited: a white-hot, furious anger. Just as my vision started to fade, headlights sliced through the rain. A man stepped out of a luxury car. It wasn't Mark. It was Julian Thorne, my husband's most hated rival, and the one man who might want Mark destroyed as much as I did.

Thriller Betrayal Revenge CEO Romance

Chapter 10

09-05 09:51

Chapter 1

My husband of five years, Mark, told me he was taking me on a romantic clifftop picnic. He poured me a glass of champagne, his smile as warm as the sun. He said it was to celebrate our life together.

But as I admired the view, his hands slammed into my back. The world dissolved into a blur of sky and rock as I plunged toward the ravine below.

I woke up broken and bleeding, just in time to hear his voice above. He wasn't alone. It was his mistress, Chloe.

"Is she... gone?" she asked.

"She fell a long way," Mark's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "No one could survive that. By the time they find the body, it'll look like a tragic accident. Poor, unstable Clara, wandering too close to the edge."

The casual cruelty of his words was worse than the impact. He had already written my obituary, crafting the narrative of my demise while leaving me to die in the storm.

A wave of despair washed over me, but then something else ignited: a white-hot, furious anger.

Just as my vision started to fade, headlights sliced through the rain. A man stepped out of a luxury car. It wasn't Mark. It was Julian Thorne, my husband's most hated rival, and the one man who might want Mark destroyed as much as I did.

Chapter 1

The first thing I registered was the pain, a blinding, razor-sharp agony that shot up my leg and exploded behind my eyes. The second was the smell of wet earth and crushed pine needles, a scent so thick it felt like I was breathing mud. My cheek was pressed against something cold and slick with rain.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my vision. Rain plastered my hair to my face, each drop a tiny, icy shock against my skin. Above me, through a tangle of dark branches, the sky was a bruised purple, churning with storm clouds. The world was a symphony of misery: the relentless drumming of the rain, the distant growl of thunder, and the ragged, desperate sound of my own breathing.

Then, I heard voices. His voice.

"Is she... gone?" The other voice was female, laced with a cloying sweetness that turned my stomach. Chloe.

"She fell a long way. No one could survive that." Mark's voice was flat, devoid of the warmth he had faked for five years. It was the voice of a man discussing a business transaction, not the wife he had just tried to murder.

My mind reeled, struggling to connect the dots. The clifftop picnic. The thermos of "special" tea that made my head swim. The sudden, brutal shove from behind. The sickening sensation of falling, the world spinning away from me as the rocks rushed up to meet me. It wasn't an accident.

*He did this. He pushed me.*

I tried to scream, to call out, but only a choked gasp escaped my lips. My throat felt raw, and a coppery taste filled my mouth. Blood.

"We should go," Chloe whined. "Someone might see the car."

"No one comes up here in this weather," Mark said, his tone dismissive. "She's as good as dead. By the time they find the body, it'll look like a tragic accident. Poor, unstable Clara, wandering too close to the edge."

The casual cruelty of his words was a physical blow, worse than the impact with the ground. He had already written my obituary, crafted the narrative of my demise. The loving husband, grieving for his troubled wife. Bile rose in my throat.

Their footsteps crunched on the gravel above, then faded. The sound of a car engine starting, and then the crunch of tires driving away, swallowed by the storm. They were gone. They had left me to die.

A wave of cold, black despair washed over me, so profound it almost finished what the fall had started. I lay there, letting the rain wash over me, a broken doll discarded in the woods. But then, a spark of something else ignited in the cold darkness of my soul. Rage. A white-hot, furious anger that burned away the despair. He would not win. I would not let him erase me.

Using my elbows, I began to drag myself forward, away from the base of the cliff. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my body, but the rage was a stronger fuel. I crawled through the thick underbrush, sharp twigs and stones tearing at my already ruined dress. The fabric, a soft silk he'd bought me for our anniversary, was now just a tattered, mud-soaked rag.

My hand closed around something small and hard in the dirt. I pulled it free, my fingers numb with cold. It was a small wooden bird, intricately carved, its surface smooth and strangely pristine despite the mud. It felt solid and real in my palm, a small, tangible mystery in the midst of this nightmare. Without thinking, I shoved it into the pocket of my thin coat.

The storm broke in earnest. The sky opened up, and rain fell in blinding sheets. The temperature dropped, and a violent shiver wracked my body. Hypothermia was setting in. I was losing the battle. My vision began to tunnel, the edges turning gray. Just as I was about to surrender to the encroaching darkness, a pair of headlights sliced through the rain-swept trees.

The light was blinding, merciless. A sleek, black luxury car slowed to a stop on the winding road just beyond the treeline. My heart hammered against my ribs. *Did they come back? Did Mark come back to make sure I was dead?*

The driver's side door opened, and a tall figure emerged, silhouetted against the powerful beams. He moved with an unnerving grace, an apex predator annoyed by an obstacle in his path. He wasn't Mark. This man was taller, broader, his presence radiating a cold, dangerous authority.

As he stepped closer, the headlights illuminated his face. Sharp, aristocratic features, dark hair slicked back by the rain, and eyes the color of storm clouds. I knew that face. I had seen it in magazines, on financial news channels, in the furious glares Mark would direct at the television. Julian Thorne. The ruthless CEO of Thorne Industries, my husband's biggest and most hated rival.

He looked down at me, his expression a mask of cold disdain. There was no pity in his eyes, only irritation.

His lip curled into a sneer of recognition. "Well, well. Clara Vance. Looks like your husband's games finally caught up with you."

He took in my broken state, the blood, the mud, the terror in my eyes, and his expression didn't soften. He looked as if he was enjoying the sight. He turned, his hand reaching for his car door, ready to leave me to my fate.

Panic, raw and primal, surged through me. With the last ounce of strength I possessed, I lunged, my fingers closing around the fine leather of his expensive shoe, grabbing his ankle. My touch was a desperate, muddy stain on his perfection.

He froze, looking down at my hand as if it were a snake.

"Please," I gasped, the word tearing from my throat. My eyes, wide with terror, locked onto his. "He tried to kill me."

The raw, undeniable fear in my voice seemed to cut through his icy composure. His hand froze on the car door. He stood there, caught between his deep-seated hatred for my husband and the horrifying, bleeding evidence of a crime right at his feet. The storm raged around us, a fitting backdrop for the moment my life was placed in the hands of my enemy.