The Ghost Bride's Game Of Revenge

The Ghost Bride's Game Of Revenge

Mystic Rose

5.0
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After surviving five years of hell in a deep-sea simulation, I finally escaped, battered and broken. I fought my way back for one reason: my fiancé, Derek. But when I found him, he sealed me in a cave and left me to die. "Just three more days, Eva," he pleaded, his hand holding my pregnant former assistant's. "Our wedding is on Saturday." My own parents, who had adopted her as their new daughter, believed her lies that I was a monster. They watched as Derek broke my ankle and hand, and my father shattered my ribs. They left me for dead, trapped and alone, after I had spent five years clinging to their memory. But I didn't die. I was rescued by a mysterious benefactor who gave me a new life and erased my pain. A year later, when a guilt-ridden Derek tracked me down, begging for a second chance, I smiled. It was my turn to play a game.

Chapter 1 Chapter 1

After surviving five years of hell in a deep-sea simulation, I finally escaped, battered and broken. I fought my way back for one reason: my fiancé, Derek. But when I found him, he sealed me in a cave and left me to die.

"Just three more days, Eva," he pleaded, his hand holding my pregnant former assistant's. "Our wedding is on Saturday."

My own parents, who had adopted her as their new daughter, believed her lies that I was a monster. They watched as Derek broke my ankle and hand, and my father shattered my ribs.

They left me for dead, trapped and alone, after I had spent five years clinging to their memory.

But I didn't die. I was rescued by a mysterious benefactor who gave me a new life and erased my pain. A year later, when a guilt-ridden Derek tracked me down, begging for a second chance, I smiled. It was my turn to play a game.

Chapter 1

Eva POV:

My life, what was left of it, ended the day I found him again. Five years. Five years of hell to get back to a world that didn't want me anymore.

The submersible was gone. One moment, the deep-sea currents were a dance of shadows and light. The next, a violent shudder rocked us, and the abyss swallowed everything. They called it an anomaly. I called it a new beginning. My beginning.

Derek, my fiancé, my rock, must have been broken by my loss. He was. I heard the stories later, whispered in the cold, sterile rooms of my recovery. He tried to end it all. A desperate, jagged cut across his wrist, a crimson promise to follow me into the deep.

He swore to my parents, his eyes wet and red, that he would spend every waking moment, every penny, the next five years of his life, searching. He told them he' d rather die than live without me. His voice, raw with grief, echoed in the empty halls of their home. My parents, shattered by their daughter's presumed death, clung to his words like a lifeline.

"Five years," he choked out, his hand shaking as he gripped my father's arm. "If I don't find her, you'll never see me again."

He meant it. He spent the money. Every last cent of our shared savings, his inheritance, even his research grants went into charting expeditions, hiring experts, buying submersible equipment. He chased every whisper, every phantom signal. He lost weight. His clean-shaven face grew a rough beard, his eyes hollowed out, dark circles perpetually bruised beneath them. He looked like a ghost, haunted by my absence.

My parents watched him, their own hope flickering. After three years, they couldn't take it anymore. They stopped funding the searches, their faces etched with a grief I couldn't imagine. They moved on, adopting a young woman, a former lab assistant of mine, Casey, into our family. A new daughter, a new life, built on my grave.

But Derek didn't stop. Not until the fifth year. That's when his relentless, desperate hunt finally paid off.

I saw the searchlights first. A blinding beacon cutting through the underwater gloom, a promise of rescue. My heart hammered against my ribs, a forgotten rhythm. I was weak, starved, my clothes hanging in tatters, my skin a patchwork of scars. But I was alive. And I was coming home.

I stumbled out of the cavern, my feet barely supporting me. The air smelled of salt and damp earth. I saw him. Derek. He looked older, more worn, but it was him. My Derek.

A sob tore through my throat, a sound I hadn't made in years. It was a cry of pure, unadulterated relief, of a love that had defied death. I ran, my broken body propelled by a surge of adrenaline, towards him.

He stood there, frozen, his eyes wide, a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher in their depths. Shock, maybe. Disbelief.

Then, his hand moved. Not towards me, but towards a small, remote detonator clipped to his belt.

A deafening roar ripped through the air. The ground beneath me trembled violently. Rocks, massive and jagged, rained down from above, sealing the entrance to the cave. My cave. My prison.

I watched, numb with horror, as the exit vanished behind a wall of twisted metal and pulverized stone. Dust and debris filled the air, choking me.

"Just... three more days, Eva," his voice was strained, barely audible over the settling debris, but the words cut through me like a physical blow. His face was a mask of agony, but his eyes were resolute. "Please. Just three more days."

My mind froze. My body, already battered and bruised, crumpled to the cold, damp ground.

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Her Pain, His Blindness

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A sharp, stabbing pain woke me. 3:17 AM. Alone. I reached for my husband, Mark, but he wasn' t there. My desperate call for help was answered by Lily, his goddaughter, her voice laced with annoyance. "Mark is busy. Eleanor isn' t feeling well, so he's here with me." I tried to explain about the emergency, the searing pain in my abdomen. She dismissed it as drama and hung up. Abandoned, I crawled to the phone and dialed 911, whispering, "I think I'm dying." At the hospital, the doctor' s grim face confirmed my worst fear: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. I was bleeding internally and needed emergency surgery. Alone, I signed the consent form, my hand trembling, tears blurring Sarah Miller into a solitary figure. When I reached Mark hours later, fresh out of surgery and groggy from anesthesia, his words were cold, clipped. "What is it now, Sarah?" Before I could explain, Lily's frantic voice in the background cut me off. "Mark, come quick! Mom\'s monitor is beeping again!" He hung up, choosing her over me, over our lost baby, over my near-death experience. The love I thought was unbreakable shattered into a million pieces. The next morning, lying in the hospital bed, a cold, hard clarity settled over me. I had to make him understand. I sent him my medical reports, hoping the undeniable proof would cut through his blindness. His reply, however, sealed my fate: "Sarah, this has gone too far. Using a fake medical report to guilt-trip me is a new low." He called me manipulative, a liar. He chose her over me, again. The fight drained out of me. I typed one word: "Okay." It was over. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I was done.

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Too Late: The Spare Daughter Escapes Him

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I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

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