Poisoned, Shot, Reborn: Now Watch Me

Jill Frevert

Modern | Completed

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For ten years, I was the invisible architect of my husband's tech empire, forced to manage his parade of publicly funded mistresses. But he crossed a line when he destroyed my father's last legacy-a priceless block of marble-to carve a statue for his new obsession, Isla. When I confronted him, he had me shot, poisoned, and left for dead in a basement. He framed me for attempting to murder Isla, turning our entire world against me. He chose her, always her, even as she dragged me to a cliff's edge, ready to push me into the ocean below. "Choose, Elliott!" she screamed. "Her or me!" "You," he choked out, his eyes on Isla. "I choose you." With his betrayal echoing in the wind, Isla threw my father's sculpture into the sea. And as the last piece of my heart sank into the abyss, I smiled. Then, I jumped.

Betrayal Revenge Rebirth Revenge Divorce

Chapter 10

01-06 22:07

Chapter 1

For ten years, I was the invisible architect of my husband's tech empire, forced to manage his parade of publicly funded mistresses.

But he crossed a line when he destroyed my father's last legacy-a priceless block of marble-to carve a statue for his new obsession, Isla.

When I confronted him, he had me shot, poisoned, and left for dead in a basement.

He framed me for attempting to murder Isla, turning our entire world against me.

He chose her, always her, even as she dragged me to a cliff's edge, ready to push me into the ocean below.

"Choose, Elliott!" she screamed. "Her or me!"

"You," he choked out, his eyes on Isla. "I choose you."

With his betrayal echoing in the wind, Isla threw my father's sculpture into the sea. And as the last piece of my heart sank into the abyss, I smiled.

Then, I jumped.

Chapter 1

Elena Thomas POV:

For ten years, I was the most famous joke in Silicon Valley.

Elena Thomas, the brilliant but invisible wife of tech mogul Elliott McCullough. The architect of his empire, the ghost in his machine.

Everyone knew about the "Muse Program."

It was Elliott' s most ostentatious, most arrogant creation. A rotating carousel of young, beautiful women-artists, poets, musicians-whom he would financially support in exchange for their "inspiration."

It was a systematic, high-profile program for his infidelities, and he believed his billions absolved him of any moral consequence.

The girls would line up, their portfolios clutched in their eager hands, waiting for their audience with me.

Yes, with me.

That was the cruelest part of the joke. I was the gatekeeper. I vetted them, I reviewed their work, and I signed the checks that sent them into my husband's bed.

"A quarter-million dollars, a two-year contract, and a non-disclosure agreement thicker than a phone book," I' d explain, my voice a flat, polished monotone. "In return, Elliott will be your patron. He will attend your gallery openings, fund your albums, and you will be his companion at all public events."

I became a punchline in gossip columns, a subject of pitying articles. The Woman Who Endured. Why does she stay? Does she have no pride?

They didn't understand. My love for Elliott hadn't just died; it had curdled into a slow-burning resentment, a toxic sludge that coated the inside of my heart. I stayed because leaving meant letting him win, meant letting him erase the fact that every microchip, every line of code that built his throne, was born from my mind.

But everyone has a breaking point.

Even me.

It all changed when he brought Isla Little home.

She was different from the others. An indie artist who projected an image of anti-establishment purity, with her torn jeans and paint-splattered hands. She spoke of art as a rebellion, of money as a corrupting force, all while her eyes glittered with a desperate, calculated greed that I recognized instantly.

Elliott became obsessed.

He saw in her a "pure soul," a chance at redemption from the very system of transactional affairs he had built.

For Isla, he dismantled his life.

The muses were dismissed, their contracts paid out with a cold finality.

He started quoting her pretentious, half-baked philosophies. "Isla says consumerism is the death of the soul, Elena. We need to be more authentic."

This, from a man who owned three private jets.

He forgot that my "dirty" work, the ruthless corporate strategies I devised, was what funded his quest for "authenticity." He forgot the nights I spent coding while he slept, the sacrifices I made, the empire I handed him on a silver platter.

The final betrayal came on the anniversary of my father's death.

My father, a celebrated sculptor, had left me one final piece before he passed: a massive, unworked block of pure Carrara marble. It was priceless, not for its market value, but for what it represented-his last, unrealized dream. It sat in the heart of our home, a silent, sacred monument to my love for him.

That day, while I was at his grave, Elliott threw a lavish party for Isla, celebrating the completion of her latest "masterpiece."

When I returned, the marble was gone.

In its place stood a pedestal. And on that pedestal was a sculpture-a grotesque, abstract rendering of Isla' s face.

He had desecrated the last piece of my father to create a gift for her.

He had taken my history, my grief, my legacy, and carved it into a monument for his whore.

That was the moment the quiet, simmering resentment ignited into a raging inferno.

I walked into the study where he and Isla were admiring their new acquisition. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. My movements were calm, deliberate.

I placed a single document on the polished mahogany desk in front of him. A divorce agreement.

"You have two choices, Elliott," I said, my voice as cold and hard as the marble he had destroyed.

He looked up, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, which quickly turned to shock as he saw what was in my other hand.

A gun.

"You sign this, giving me 100% of the company as stipulated in our original partnership agreement under the infidelity clause," I continued, the weight of the cold steel oddly comforting in my palm.

"Or what?" he sneered, though a bead of sweat was already tracing a path down his temple.

I raised the gun, not at him, but at the terrified, wide-eyed artist cowering behind him.

"Or she dies."