The Fallen Star: A Wife's Betrayal

self-important whispers. My mother' s guitar, the last tangi

fe. They smirked. Moments later, the auctioneer announced the bidding for the guitar, and my

"just an old guitar" while scrolling through her phone, a tight, cold smile on her face. The next day, the public backlash against Dylan was brutal, twisted by me

announced a surprise: a private exhibition to "honor" her

glass, a single bloodstained shoe. The exhibition title, "The Fallen Star," was a cruel mockery. Maya watched me, a faint, tri

sure shattered. It was then, amidst the gasps and sick excitement, surrounded by vultures, that I realized I was trapped in her twisted game, my pain her pe

with every bid, the horrifying truth dawned: this wasn't just a spectacle; it was a torture session, and my mother' s memory was the weapon. She

urred. The pain, the humiliation, the utter desecration of my mother' s memory, ignited a cold, hard resolve within me. I had nothing left to lose. I