Gavin

For ten years, I secretly loved my guardian, Ethan Hayes. After my family fell apart, he took me in and raised me. He was my entire world. On my eighteenth birthday, I gathered all my courage to confess my love to him. But his reaction was a fury I had never seen before. He swept my birthday cake to the floor and roared, "Are you insane? I am your GUARDIAN!" He then mercilessly tore the painting I had spent a year on-my confession-to shreds. Just days later, he brought home his fiancée, Chloe. The man who had promised to wait for me to grow up, who called me his brightest star, had vanished. My decade of desperate, burning love had only managed to burn myself. The person who was supposed to protect me had become the one who hurt me the most. I looked down at the NYU acceptance letter in my hand. I had to leave. I had to pull him out of my heart, no matter how much it hurt. I picked up the phone and dialed my father's number. "Dad," I said, my voice hoarse, "I've decided. I want to come be with you in New York."

My husband, Bennett, and I were New York's golden couple. But our perfect marriage was a lie, childless because of a rare genetic condition he claimed would kill any woman who carried his baby. When his dying father demanded an heir, Bennett proposed a solution: a surrogate. The woman he chose, Aria, was a younger, more vibrant version of me. Suddenly, Bennett was always busy, supporting her through "difficult IVF cycles." He missed my birthday. He forgot our anniversary. I tried to believe him, until I overheard him at a party. He confessed to his friends that his love for me was a "deep connection," but with Aria, it was "fire" and "exhilarating." He was planning a secret wedding with her in Lake Como, at the same villa he'd promised me for our anniversary. He was giving her a wedding, a family, a life—all the things he denied me, using a lie about a deadly genetic condition as his excuse. The betrayal was so complete it felt like a physical shock. When he came home that night, lying about a business trip, I smiled and played the part of the loving wife. He didn't know I'd heard everything. He didn't know that while he was planning his new life, I was already planning my escape. And he certainly didn't know I had just made a call to a service that specialized in one thing: making people disappear.

I was four months pregnant, a photographer excited for our future, attending a sophisticated baby brunch. Then I saw him, my husband Michael, with another woman, and a newborn introduced as "his son." My world shattered as a torrent of betrayal washed over me, magnified by Michael's dismissive claim I was "just being emotional." His mistress, Serena, taunted me, revealing Michael had discussed my pregnancy complications with her, then slapped me, causing a terrifying cramp. Michael sided with her, publicly shaming me, demanding I leave "their" party, as a society blog already paraded them as a "picture-perfect family." He fully expected me to return, to accept his double life, telling his friends I was "dramatic" but would "always come back." The audacity, the calculated cruelty of his deception, and Serena's chilling malice, fueled a cold, hard rage I barely recognized. How could I have been so blind, so trusting of the man who gaslighted me for months while building a second family? But on the plush carpet of that lawyer's office, as he turned his back on me, a new, unbreakable resolve solidified. They thought I was broken, disposable, easily manipulated – a "reasonable" wife who would accept a sham separation. They had no idea my calm acceptance was not surrender; it was strategy, a quiet promise to dismantle everything he held dear. I would not be handled; I would not understand; I would end this, and make sure their perfect family charade crumbled into dust.

Eighteen days after giving up on Brendan Maynard, Jayde Rosario cut off her waist-length hair and called her father, announcing her decision to move to California and attend UC Berkeley. Her father, surprised, asked about the sudden change, reminding her how she' d always insisted on staying with Brendan. Jayde forced a laugh, revealing the painful truth: Brendan was getting married, and she, his stepsister, could no longer cling to him. That night, she tried to tell Brendan about her college acceptance, but his fiancée, Chloie Ellis, interrupted with a bubbly call, and Brendan' s tender words to Chloie twisted a knife in Jayde' s heart. She remembered how his tenderness used to be hers alone, how he had protected her, and how she had poured out her heart to him in a diary and a love letter, only for him to explode, tearing the letter and yelling, "I'm your brother!" He had stormed out, leaving her to painstakingly tape the shredded pieces back together. Her love, however, didn't die, not even when he brought Chloie home and told her to call her "sister-in-law." Now, she understood. She had to put that fire out herself. She had to dig Brendan out of her heart.

My fiancé, tech CEO Cohen Burgess, took me to the city's most exclusive restaurant for our three-year anniversary. Then his high school sweetheart, Kiera, reappeared, claiming amnesia. To help her "recover," Cohen started a viral "100 Dates Challenge" with her, turning their reunion into a national spectacle. I became the villain in their love story. When I objected, Cohen locked me in a wine cellar, knowing my severe claustrophobia. He let Kiera wear my deceased mother's priceless dress, and when she deliberately tore it, he tossed his credit card at me and told me to buy a new one. I finally decided to leave, only to overhear his true plan: he would marry me for my family's status, but keep Kiera as his mistress. I was never his love; I was a beautiful, high-class tool for his ambition. The final act came when Kiera set my room on fire and framed me. Cohen screamed I was a psycho and left me to burn. As the roof collapsed, a stranger kicked down the door. He carried me from the inferno and said, "I'm Case Browning. Your husband."

My husband was in the shower, the sound of water a familiar rhythm to our mornings. I was just placing a cup of coffee on his desk, a small ritual in our five years of what I thought was a perfect marriage. Then, an email notification flashed on his laptop: "You're invited to the Christening of Leo Thomas." Our last name. The sender: Hayden Cleveland, a social media influencer. An icy dread settled in. It was an invitation for his son, a son I didn't know existed. I went to the church, hidden in the shadows, and saw him holding a baby, a little boy with his dark hair and eyes. Hayden Cleveland, the mother, leaned on his shoulder, a picture of domestic bliss. They looked like a family. A perfect, happy family. My world crumbled. I remembered him refusing to have a baby with me, citing work pressure. All his business trips, the late nights-were they spent with them? The lie was so easy for him. How could I have been so blind? I called the Zurich Architectural Fellowship, a prestigious program I had deferred for him. "I' d like to accept the fellowship," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I can leave immediately."

Four years after my son Leo drowned, I was still lost in a fog of grief. My husband, Eli Stark, the tech mogul, was the public' s saint, a devoted father who built a foundation in Leo' s name. But when I went to finalize Leo' s death certificate, a clerk' s casual comment shattered my world: "Mr. Stark has another dependent child listed." The name hit me like a physical blow: Cody Sharpe, son of Kasey Sharpe, the woman who had stalked Eli for years. I found them, a perfect family, Eli laughing, a happiness I hadn't seen in years. Then, I overheard Kasey confessing to Eli that his affair with her was why he wasn't watching Leo the day he died. My world crumbled. For four years, I had carried the guilt, believing Leo' s death was a tragic accident, comforting Eli who blamed himself for a "work call." It was all a lie. His betrayal had killed our son. The man I loved, the man who had built a prison of grief around me, was living a happy life with another family. He had watched me suffer, letting me blame myself, while his secret festered. How could he? How could he stand there and lie, knowing his actions led to our son' s death? The injustice burned, a cold, sharp rage replacing my grief. I called my lawyer, then my former mentor, Casey Long, whose experimental memory erasure research was my only hope. "I want to forget," I whispered, "I need to forget everything. Erase him for me."

At eight months pregnant, I thought my husband Derek and I had it all. A perfect home, a loving marriage, and our miracle son on the way. Then, while tidying his office, I found his vasectomy certificate. It was dated a year ago, long before we even started trying. Confused and panicked, I rushed to his office, only to hear laughter from behind the door. It was Derek and his best friend, Edison. "I can't believe she still hasn't figured it out," Edison chuckled. "She walks around with that giant belly, glowing like some kind of saint." My husband's voice, the one that whispered words of love to me every night, was full of contempt. "Patience, my friend. The bigger she gets, the bigger the fall. And the bigger my payout." He said our entire marriage was a cruel game to destroy me, all for his precious adopted sister, Else. They were even running a bet on who the real father was. "So, the bet is still on?" Edison asked. "My money's still on me." My baby was a trophy in their sick contest. The world tilted on its axis. The love I felt, the family I was building—it was all a sham. In that moment, a cold, clear decision formed in the ruins of my heart. I pulled out my phone, my voice surprisingly steady as I called a private clinic. "Hello," I said. "I need to schedule an appointment. For a termination."

My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

The fluorescent hum of the DMV was the soundtrack to my boring life, until I tried to replace my lost driver's license. "Your marital status. It says you're divorced," the clerk said, shattering my five-year marriage to Jackson Parks with a single, flat sentence. My husband, Jackson, the man who swore he loved me, had secretly divorced me three years ago. Not only that, he had remarried the very next day to Candida Camacho, the woman who had tried to murder me on my wedding day and left me infertile. And they had a two-year-old son, Joey. I stumbled home, my world a blur, only to find Jackson and Candida in our living room, arguing. "I hate having to pretend for that pathetic woman!" Candida shrieked. Jackson, my husband, pleaded, "I love you. I've always loved you." The man I sacrificed everything for, who swore to destroy her, was now playing house with my attempted murderer, and I was the fool living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing his lies. The pain in my abdomen, a phantom ache from five years ago, flared to life, mirroring the gaping wound in my soul. I would not be his victim anymore. "Hamilton," I said into the phone, my voice clear and steady. "I need your help. I need you to help me die."

I was a foster kid with a talent for art. My benefactor, Declan, gave me everything: an education, a home, and a future. I loved him, and I agreed to be his wife. Then his adopted sister, Faye, decided she wanted my brother. When my brother rejected her, Declan had his hands broken, destroying his future as a musician. Faye framed me for kidnapping her, and Declan believed every word. He had me thrown into an abandoned mine pit filled with snakes as punishment. Then, to teach me a "permanent lesson," he had his men drag me to a clinic. They took one of my kidneys. The man who promised to protect me, who I thought was my savior, carved a piece of me out for a crime I didn't commit. The love I felt for him died on that operating table. When I woke up, he sat by my bed and told me our wedding was still on. He thought he had broken me. He was wrong. He doesn't know I have a plan. He doesn't know I'm leaving. And he'll never see me again.

I walked into City Hall, ready to tear up my marriage application. It was over. Hours earlier, I woke up in a hospital bed, my fiancé Aubrey beside me, his face a mask of annoyance. He told me to apologize to Kennedy, the woman who had just pushed me into an icy lake, nearly drowning me. Through the churning water, I had seen Aubrey swim past me, straight to Kennedy, who was faking drowning. He believed her lies, accusing me of attacking her, despite my life-threatening injury. He dismissed my pain, my sacrifice, and my years of loyalty, all for a woman who had betrayed him in the past. He even used my own values against me, telling me to "put others before yourself." I was tired. So incredibly tired. The near-drowning had been a baptism. I finally understood: I could not fix this. I could not win his love. When I returned home, he had already given my precious herbal tea, meant for my chronic pain, to Kennedy. He then demoted me to a guest in my own home, ordering me to cook for her. It was time to burn the last bridge.

The first time I knew my marriage was over was when I saw my wife Angela and our daughter Chaney laughing with Giovanni Brown at the private airfield. For ten years, I had been the perfect political husband, sacrificing my music career to be a stay-at-home dad and Angela' s smiling prop. Then, this morning, I found the hotel receipts. Dozens of them, stretching back a decade, always two rooms booked but only one used, always on nights she was supposedly at a "political retreat" with her campaign manager, Giovanni. My world shattered. At the airfield, Angela adjusted Giovanni' s tie, her smile warm and intimate, a smile I hadn' t seen in years. Chaney held Giovanni' s hand, looking up at him with adoration. I was the intruder. When I confronted them, Angela' s face paled, then flushed with anger, not shame. Chaney scowled, screaming, "Daddy, you' re embarrassing us!" She then delivered the final, killing strike, clinging to Giovanni and yelling, "You' re just a useless stay-at-home dad! Uncle Gio helps Mommy with important things!" The humiliation was a physical thing, hot and suffocating. Angela didn' t defend me; she agreed. I realized I was just a service provider, a convenient accessory they no longer needed. They thought I was nothing without them. They were about to find out just how wrong they were.

My husband, Alec Craig, was Chicago' s star prosecutor, the man who saved me from a dark past. Or so I thought. He was the man who sent me to prison, framing me for a crime I didn't commit to protect his ex-girlfriend, Catalina. My three years in Joliet Correctional Center were a blur of concrete and gray uniforms. The woman who went in, a successful graphic designer who loved her husband, died in there. When I was finally released, I expected to see him, but he sent an assistant to "cleanse my bad energy." Then I saw them: Alec and Catalina, hosting a "welcome home" party for me, the woman they put behind bars. They paraded me around, forcing me to drink champagne until I bled internally from a perforated ulcer. Alec, ever the devoted protector, rushed to Catalina's side, leaving me bleeding on the floor. He even falsified my medical report, blaming my condition on alcohol. I lay in that hospital bed, the last remnants of hope withering and dying. I couldn't cry. The feeling was too deep for tears. I just laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. I wanted to destroy him. Not jail. I wanted him to lose everything. His career. His reputation. His precious Catalina. I wanted him to feel what I felt.

My eight-year marriage to tech mogul James Slater was a secret, a perfect facade of love and devotion. I was a celebrity chef, he was the doting husband, but it was all a beautiful lie. On our eighth anniversary, James showed me a video: my younger brother, Kelley, tied to a chair, humiliated, being tortured by an "artist" named Kirsten Casey. James called it "performance art," a twisted display of his new muse's "vision." He dismissed my horror, his staff echoing his words, claiming I "wouldn't understand." He gave me an ultimatum: prove Kirsten's illegality or publicly apologize for slandering her. When I pleaded for Kelley, he offered a million dollars for therapy, his voice flat and final. He said Kirsten was "important" and I wouldn't stand in her way. The truth was a physical blow. James was Kirsten's patron, her lover, her legal shield. He was using his immense power to protect her cruelty. I was trapped, isolated, my home a cage. "You're her lawyer? You're helping her do this?" I choked out, my voice raw. He just looked at me, his eyes devoid of love, and said, "Hannah, don't make this difficult." I signed the papers, desperate to protect Kelley. But it was too late. Kelley jumped. At the hospital, James, the primary benefactor, ordered them not to "waste resources." My brother died. My baby, too, lost in the horror. I was shattered, blaming myself for trusting him.

"You will be declared dead, Gregoria." That's what Agent Christian told me. My life as an FBI agent was about to end, replaced by a ghost. No contact with my past, not even my husband, Darwin. But then, a week before my staged death, I walked into our home office and saw it: Darwin's laptop, open, displaying a live video feed. My husband, shirtless, with his assistant, Elyssa Daniel. They were kissing. My world tilted. I watched, frozen, as he kissed her. The sounds they made were obscene. I recognized the unique lines of his body, the watch I gave him for our anniversary. I stumbled back, my hand shaking as I reached for my phone. I had to confront this nightmare. I hit the call button. On the screen, Darwin froze, then answered my call. "Hey, honey. What's up?" His voice, so normal, so full of lies, broke something inside me. The phone slipped from my grasp. My heart, my love, my entire world had been a lie. I spent the night on the office floor, replaying the video. The evidence of his betrayal was a digital tombstone for our marriage. Each time I watched, disgust and pain grew. I looked at my wedding ring, a mark of my foolishness, and threw it across the room. He thought I was weak, predictable. He thought I loved him so much I'd believe the sky was green. But the woman who loved Darwin Mcintosh died on that office floor. And in that moment, my mission, my fake death, felt like an escape.

My brother died because we couldn't come up with the fifty-thousand-dollar surgery fee that could have saved him. My boyfriend of five years, Holden, told me we were broke. But at the exact moment my brother took his last breath, Holden was buying a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche for his high school sweetheart. That's when I found out the truth. The man I'd supported for five years wasn't a struggling founder. He was a secret billionaire heir playing poor, and I was just a "placeholder" until his real love came back. To punish me for discovering his secret, he forced me onto the back of a motorcycle in a dangerous street race. Then he jumped off the moving bike to save his lover from a catcall, leaving me to crash. He left me bleeding on the asphalt with a broken leg to rush her to the hospital. Later, he forced me to donate my blood to her because she was "in shock." He told me my brother was a "sunk cost" and that my suffering was my own fault. He even demanded I get on my knees and apologize for distracting him. But Holden didn't know about my grandfather, or the pact he made with five of the most powerful men in the country—a pact to protect me at all costs. Now, I've faked my own death, and I'm about to marry his greatest rival.

I stood just outside the glass patio doors, holding a tray of fresh towels. Tonight was a celebration of Coleton Barron' s full recovery, the tech world' s golden boy back on his feet after three years of my dedicated physical therapy. But then, his ex-girlfriend, Charly Mack, appeared. When a stray splash from the pool hit her dress, Coleton shoved me aside to protect her, sending me headfirst into the concrete edge of the pool. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion, only to see Coleton comforting Charly, who was faking tears. He didn' t defend me when she claimed we were "just friends." His mother, Esther Cotton, then sent me a text with a five-million-dollar check, telling me I didn' t fit into his world. Back at his penthouse, Charly accused me of poisoning Coleton with soup and breaking his father' s cherished wooden box. He believed her, forcing me to drink the soup and leaving me to collapse on the kitchen floor. I ended up in the hospital again, alone. I didn' t understand why he would believe her lies, why he would hurt me after everything I had done. Why was I just a temporary fix, easily discarded? On his birthday, I left him a text: "Happy Birthday, Coleton. I' m leaving. Don' t look for me. Goodbye." I turned off my phone, dropped it in a trash can, and walked toward a new life.

My wedding to Ethan, the man I’d loved for five years, was weeks away. Everything was set for our future, a beautifully planned life together. Then the call came: Ethan’s high school sweetheart, Chloe, was found with severe amnesia, still believing she was his girlfriend. Ethan postponed our wedding, asked me to pretend to be his brother Liam’s girlfriend, insisting it was "for Chloe’s sake." I endured quiet agony watching him relive their past, his every loving gesture now for her. Chloe’s Instagram became a public shrine to their "rekindled" love, #TrueLove emblazoned everywhere. I even found a groundbreaking clinic for Chloe, hoping for an end, but Ethan brushed it off. Then, I overheard him: I was just a "placeholder," a "good sport" who would wait, because I had "nowhere else to go." Five years of my life, my love, my loyalty, reduced to a disposable convenience. The cold, calculated betrayal punched the air from my lungs. He thought I was trapped, that he could use me at will, then return to me, expecting gratitude. Numb, I stumbled. And then, I met Liam, Ethan’s quiet brother. "I need to get married, Liam. To someone. Soon." The words escaped me. Liam, who had watched silently, responded: "What if I said I'd marry you, Ava? For real." A dangerous, desperate plan ignited within me, fueled by pain and a fierce desire for reckoning. "Alright, Liam," I declared, a new resolve hardening my voice. "But I have conditions: Ethan must be your Best Man, and he must give me away at the altar." The charade was about to begin, but now, it was on my terms. And Ethan had no idea the bride was truly me.

I woke up after five years in a coma, a miracle, the doctors said. The last thing I remembered was pushing my husband, Derek, out of the way of an oncoming truck. I saved him. But a week later, at the county clerk's office, I discovered a death certificate filed two years ago. My parents' names were on it. And then, Derek's signature. My husband, the man I saved, had declared me dead. Shock turned to a hollow numbness. I returned to our home, only to find Anjelica Hardin, the woman who caused the crash, living there. She kissed Derek, casually, familiarly. My son, Errol, called her "Mommy." My parents, Alva and Glyn, defended her, saying she was "one of the family now." They wanted me to forgive, to forget, to understand. They wanted me to share my husband, my son, my life, with the woman who had stolen it all. My own son, the child I had carried and loved, screamed, "I want her to go away! Go away! That's my mommy!" pointing at Anjelica. I was an outsider, a ghost haunting their happy new life. My awakening wasn't a miracle; it was an inconvenience. I had lost everything: my husband, my child, my parents, my very identity. But then, a call from Zurich. A new identity. A new life. Catherine Anderson was dead. And I would live only for myself.

My father raised seven brilliant orphans to be my potential husbands. For years, I only had eyes for one of them, the cold and distant Damien Paul, believing his distance was a wall I just had to break through. That belief shattered last night when I found him in the garden, kissing his foster sister, Eve—the fragile girl my family took in at his request, the one I had treated like my own sister. But the true horror came when I overheard the other six Fellows talking in the library. They weren't competing for me. They were working together, orchestrating "accidents" and mocking my "stupid, blind" devotion to keep me away from Damien. Their loyalty wasn't to me, the heiress who held their futures in her hands. It was to Eve. I wasn't a woman to be won. I was a foolish burden to be managed. The seven men I grew up with, the men who owed my family everything, were a cult, and she was their queen. This morning, I walked into my father's study to make a decision that would burn their world to the ground. He smiled, asking if I'd finally won Damien over. "No, Dad," I said, my voice firm. "I'm marrying Hunter Beach."

For three years, I thought I was happily married to Gavin, a struggling MMA fighter. I worked two jobs to make ends meet, tending to his wounds, believing his love was the only thing keeping him going, especially since a car crash had wiped my memory clean, leaving him as my entire world. Then, scrubbing our tiny kitchen floor, the local news flashed a headline: "Tech giant Gavin Hawkins, CEO of Hawkins Industries, announced his engagement today to Vice President Heidi Daniel." The man on screen, standing in front of a skyscraper, embracing a stunning woman, was my husband. He wore a tailored suit, a stark contrast to the bruised fighter I knew. The small, carved wooden bird I' d painstakingly made for our anniversary rested against his chest as he kissed her deeply, possessively. My stomach twisted, my head pounded, and the steak I was cooking for him began to smoke, filling our cramped apartment with a bitter, burning smell. I stumbled out, hailing a cab to Hawkins Industries, desperate for answers. There, I saw him laughing with Heidi, oblivious to my presence. He silenced my call, texting, "In a meeting, baby. Can't talk. Be home late tonight. Don't wait up for me. I love you." The words blurred through my tears. A sob escaped, loud and raw. A flash of pain shot through my head, and then, the memories flooded back: the car crash wasn't an accident, Heidi Daniel was the driver, and Gavin, my father's protégé, had orchestrated this entire lie, this cruel test of my loyalty. He had taken everything-my identity, my wealth, my family-and thrown me into poverty, just to see if I would still love him unconditionally. He was a monster, and I was his prisoner. But a cold, hard resolve settled in my chest: I would burn his world to the ground, starting by faking my own death.

For seven years, my husband Kerr Chapman' s every cruel word and cold shoulder was translated by a mysterious "Mind-Link Notification" as a twisted expression of love. It told me his dismissals were "tests of obedience," his neglect a sign of "profound commitment." I believed it, sacrificing my dignity and self for a love I thought was just hidden. Then, after he kicked me out late one night, I crashed my car. Lying injured in the hospital, I expected him to finally break. Instead, he arrived with my university rival, Gina Parker, who openly mocked me and claimed Kerr had been with her. Kerr stood by, defending Gina, even as she deliberately broke a cherished drawing of my deceased mother and then fabricated a story that I attacked her. He carried her out, leaving me alone, his words echoing: "It's a thing, Chloe. You hurt a person over a thing." The Mind-Link notification flashed, trying to justify his betrayal as "a test of my unconditional love." But for the first time, its words felt like a monstrous lie, a sick justification for his cruelty. I stared at the blue box, the words blurring through my tears. The love it described wasn't love. It was a cage. And I finally, finally saw the bars. I had to get out.

My daughter Lily hadn't seen her father in five years, so her joyful cry of "Daddy!" echoed through the sterile mansion as she ran to him. But his eyes were not for her. Jessica Hayes, his "one true love," stood beside him, her feigned trip and cry sending him into a panic. He scooped her up, his face contorted with concern, then shot a venomous look at our innocent five-year-old. "Lock her in the master bedroom closet. Three days. No food." My blood ran cold. "Ryan, no! Please, you can't!" "She has asthma, Ryan. She'll suffocate!" He scoffed, accusing me of lies and manipulative ploys. The guards, impervious to my pleas, ripped Lily from my arms. "Mommy! Mommy, I'm sorry!" she shrieked, carried away. That night, her terrified cries faded to desperate whimpers. "Please, Mommy... can't... breathe..." I pounded on the door until my fists were raw, screaming for them to let her out. The whimpers stopped. The closet door opened. Lily lay there, blue, not moving, not breathing. Unconscious from lack of oxygen. The ambulance siren wailed as I sank to the waiting room floor. My phone buzzed. It was Instagram. Jessica Hayes, pouting in a hospital bed with a tiny scratch. Her caption: "Mr. Peterson is so generous! I only scraped my knee and he gave me two luxury apartments as compensation. I guess I'll forgive you now~" Geotagged from a luxury hospital across town. Where our daughter wasn't. He gifted her apartments for a scraped knee, while our child suffocated. A cold numbness spread through me. "Grandma," I whispered, bowing my head to Mrs. Peterson. "Love cannot be forced. Please... let him be with Jessica. I just want to take Lily and leave." My fresh wounds throbbed, tears mixing with blood. I showed her the post, the address of our marital home given away. Mrs. Peterson's face blazed with fury. "That scoundrel! That worthless boy!" "Call that bastard and tell him to get his ass to this hospital immediately!" But it was too late. If Grandma's scolding worked, Lily would never have been locked in that closet.

My son Leo's panicked cry ripped through our Queens apartment. He was seizing, turning blue, his little body rigid. I dropped everything, scooped him up, and raced to the hospital, only to be told the closest ambulance was twenty minutes away. My only hope was my sputtering ten-year-old sedan, a humiliating relic from before my real estate mogul husband, Franklin West, declared bankruptcy. But traffic was a nightmare, and a detour spat me out into Times Square, where hundred-dollar bills were fluttering from the sky. And there he was, Franklin West, on a rooftop stage, arms outstretched like a king, beside a young, beautiful, and very pregnant Janel Morales, his cruel real estate agent. My "bankrupt" husband was literally making it rain money, orchestrating an obscene publicity stunt. I called him, desperate. "Franklin, it's Leo! He's sick, he can't breathe. I'm stuck. I need you." He dismissed me, claiming he was hiding from creditors in a Jersey motel, then hung up, turning to kiss his mistress tenderly. He didn't love us. He was standing on a rooftop with his pregnant mistress, throwing away more money than I had seen in a year, while our son struggled for every breath. The rage and betrayal felt like acid in my stomach. How could he lie so brazenly, so monstrously, while our son was dying? How could he choose a public spectacle and a new family over his own child? A dam inside me broke. The love, the trust, the years I had dedicated to this man-it was all gone. He had made his choice. Now I had to save our son. Alone.

My life was a perfect ballet: Juilliard-bound, adored by Ethan Miller, the golden boy everyone envied. Our future shone brighter than any stage light. Then, the crash. A blinding flash, then darkness. I woke up to a hospital room, my ballerina legs amputated, a devastating gift from Jess, Ethan' s obsessed ex, who' d deliberately run me down. Every dream shattered. But the real nightmare began when I uncovered Ethan's secret. The man who vowed 'forever,' whose hand I clung to, was secretly comforting Jess, his 'enemy,' filling her with false hope and a twisted compassion. His perfect devotion was a suffocating lie, driving me deeper into a pit of physical and emotional agony. How could the man I loved betray me so utterly, with the very person who destroyed my life? The whys screamed in my head, a desperate, hollow echo in a world turned to ash. With nothing left but the unbearable pain, I sought the final escape. But instead of an end, I found a terrifying twist: I woke up in a hospital bed, three years earlier, my legs miraculously whole, memories of my devastating demise burning clear. This time, I would rewrite my tragic fate and break free from this cursed cycle.

My mother, a nurse who spent forty years caring for others, was poisoned and left for dead after a charity gala. The woman responsible, Keyla Dixon, stood in court, a mask of tearful innocence, claiming self-defense. The real horror? My husband, Garrison Gardner, the city's top lawyer, was defending Keyla. He tore my mother's reputation apart, twisting the truth until the jury believed Keyla was the victim. The verdict came swiftly: "Not guilty." Keyla hugged Garrison, a triumphant smirk flashing across her face. That night, in our cold mansion, I confronted him. "How could you?" I choked out. He calmly replied, "It was my job. Keyla is a very important client." When I screamed that she tried to kill my mother, he threatened to use my mother's sealed medical records, her history of depression, to paint her as unstable and suicidal. He was willing to destroy her memory to protect his client and his career. I was trapped, humiliated, and heartbroken. He had sacrificed my mother for his ambition, and now he was trying to erase me. But as I signed the divorce papers he had prepared, a wild, desperate plan began to form. If they wanted me gone, I would disappear. And then, I would make them pay.

My wedding to Ethan Reed was just weeks away. After seven years, I was certain of our perfect future. Then, Ethan claimed "selective amnesia" from a head injury, forgetting only me. I tried to make him remember, until I overheard his video call. "Total genius move," he boasted to friends. His amnesia was a fake "hall pass" to pursue influencer Chloe Vance before our wedding. Heartbroken, I feigned belief. I endured his open flirting with Chloe and their taunting selfies. He mocked my distress, prioritizing Chloe's fake emergency. After an accident he caused, he abandoned me, injured, choosing to send Chloe to the hospital first. He even tried to cut me off financially. How could my fiancé be this cruel, calculating monster? His betrayal poisoned every memory. I felt like a fool for trusting such boundless cruelty. His audacity left me reeling. But I wouldn’t be his victim. Instead of breaking, a cold plan formed. I would shed my identity, become Olivia Carter. I would disappear, leaving him, my past, and his engagement ring behind forever, claiming my freedom.

The heavy glass door of the city clerk' s office swung shut, sealing my fate. Today was supposed to be perfect, our third wedding anniversary, a day to celebrate the love Olivia and I had built. I clutched a small, official envelope, the certified copy of our marriage certificate, a simple gift. But the clerk' s flat voice still echoed in my ears: "There is no marriage certificate on file for an Ethan Miller and an Olivia Reed." My perfect life shattered. Olivia, my wife, the love of my life, was legally married to Alex Thorne, my protégé. The man who had filled in for me, the man she' d once dismissed. Every memory, every whispered promise, every intimate moment we shared, felt like a meticulously crafted lie. My heart pounded, a grotesque drumbeat against a hollow chest. How could this be? How could the woman I loved, the woman who promised me forever, be living a double life? How could I have been so blind? I walked into our apartment, the home I designed as a monument to our love, and heard her voice from the bedroom, low and intimate. "Of course, I miss you, Alex. Ethan doesn't know anything, he' s as clueless as ever. You know I can' t leave him, not yet. He' s too useful, his name still carries weight in this city, but you' re the one I' m married to, you' re the one I truly need." The words struck me like a physical blow, choking the air from my lungs. I wasn' t a husband; I was a prop, a stepping stone in her grand scheme. But the love I felt for her died in that hallway, replaced by something cold and sharp. I wouldn' t give her the satisfaction of a fight. I would disappear. And then, when she was comfortable in her world built on my back, I would return and take everything from her.

For ten years, I gave up everything for my boyfriend, Damien. After a family scandal left him ostracized and broken, I worked two jobs to send him to a prestigious university, believing in the genius everyone else had abandoned. But the moment he became the tech innovator I always knew he could be, he fell for someone else—a wealthy, brilliant colleague named Carson Wall. Suddenly, I was an embarrassment. His new friends whispered about the "waitress" dragging him down. He started forgetting me, too. He forgot my birthday. He forgot my favorite food. During a fire alarm at a restaurant, he ran right past me to save her, leaving me to fall in the panicked crowd. I was the one who pulled him off a rooftop when he wanted to die. I sacrificed my own dreams so he could have his. I thought he loved me, but I was just a debt he felt obligated to repay. After he left me in that fire, I finally gave up. I booked a one-way ticket home, ready to disappear from his life. Then, I received a video from Carson—her tearful love confession to him. I took a deep breath, sent him one last message telling him we were over, and blocked his number forever.

I' d finally done it. My resignation letter officially landed on Mr. Henderson' s expensive mahogany desk, putting a ruthless period on years of being Ethan Cole' s secret convenience. But freedom was fleeting. Isabella, his fiancée and my tormentor, summoned me to Ethan' s TriBeCa penthouse, wielding an old, whimsical sketch of mine like a weapon, then slapped me clean across the face. Ethan arrived, and instead of defending me, he smoothed Isabella' s perfect, glistening fake tears, dismissing me as someone who "meant nothing" -just "a release." Emboldened, Isabella snatched my portfolio, spilling my architectural dreams-designs for community centers-and pouring red wine directly onto them, staining my future crimson. Ethan then tossed a wad of cash at my feet, his voice flat: "For the dry cleaning. Now get out." I stumbled out into the New York downpour, each raindrop a tiny hammer pounding home the gut-wrenching humiliation of being so utterly worthless to the man I' d loved. How could he, the center of my naive world, watch as my dignity and dreams were drowned in wine, then casually toss money as if I were a broken possession? But in that deepest moment of despair, something snapped. I was done being their discarded convenience, their emotional punching bag; I would disappear and rebuild a life where my peace wasn' t for sale, no matter what it took.

Tonight was supposed to be perfect, our fifth wedding anniversary, and I, Ava Monroe, was glowing, a secret smile playing on my lips for the news I planned to share with my loving husband, Liam. But then, a strange, unlocked phone in his study revealed a picture: Liam with another woman, Sophia Chen, whose hand clung to his with an intimacy that made my blood run cold. Hidden, I heard his voice, tender and intimate, confirming my worst fears about Sophia and a chilling dismissiveness towards me: "Ava doesn\'t suspect a thing. She\'s probably in the kitchen, playing the perfect wife, just like always." He then spoke of a "real, legally binding" marriage that wasn\'t ours, calling our five years "a beautiful placeholder," a "five-year arrangement that\'s about to end." My perfect life shattered, exposing his carefully constructed deceit. My heart hammered with a terrifying realization: I was pregnant with his child, a child conceived in a lie, while he was secretly married to another woman. Then, at a charity gala, with my arm still bruised from Sophia\'s staged fall and Liam\'s furious accusations, I saw them. Under the table, while he held my hand for the cameras, his other hand stroked hers-a secret, intimate gesture meant for me. The sheer audacity, the cold, calculated performance, didn\'t even hurt anymore; it simply filled me with a profound, soul-crushing boredom. I just wanted out. Suddenly, a searing pain ripped through my body, as I collapsed, instinctively knowing Sophia had poisoned me, and Liam, blinded by his own narrative, walked away, leaving me to my fate. Waking up alone in a sterile hospital room, no longer pregnant, I learned the truth: Sophia had tried to kill me, and Liam' s betrayal went deeper than I ever imagined. I would disappear, but not before leaving behind the unedited truth of his monstrous betrayal.

For five years, I was Julian Heath's dirty little secret. As the CEO of a tech empire, he was a king, but a rare neurotoxin made him a prisoner. My unique biochemistry was his only antidote, requiring hours of intimate contact to keep him alive. He was convinced I was the one who poisoned him—an obsessed stalker who had trapped him in a disgusting dependency. Tonight, he gave me the "attention" he said I always craved, live-streaming a video of our most private moments to a private auction. As the bids climbed, he introduced me to his new fiancée, Cassandra. She was his real savior, he announced. Her family had developed a permanent cure, derived from my own blood. After tonight, he would finally be free of me. He had it all wrong. I wasn't born with the antidote. I was a biochemist who spent a year in a hidden lab modifying my own genetic code, turning myself into a living cure to save the man I'd loved since childhood. He left me in that room with the live stream still playing, his laughter echoing down the hall. The love I had for him turned to ash. I walked out, found a payphone, and made a call to the only person who knew the truth. "I want you to help me fake my death."

I thought I had it all. A brilliant tech genius husband, Ethan Caldwell, a New York penthouse, and a baby on the way. My life felt like a perfect dream. Then Ethan announced a "catastrophic business failure," plunging us into poverty in a cramped Queens apartment. Five years later, working a Gala, I saw him again. A celebrated "miracle benefactor," he presented the very diamond bracelet he'd promised me to Victoria Vanderbilt—the woman he'd secretly always loved. All my sacrifices, Leo's quiet deprivations—they were an elaborate lie. He'd been building an empire for *her*. The betrayal escalated: Ethan demanded Leo be a kidney donor for Victoria's son. Later, Victoria orchestrated a kidnapping, and Ethan, dismissing my desperate pleas, coldly told the abductors to "teach me a lesson" and hung up. How could the man I loved, Leo's father, be such a monstrous, heartless betrayer? His casual disregard for our very lives, his ultimate abandonment during our terror, left me shattered. Was our entire marriage truly just a cruel, convenient sham for him? Watching my son suffer due to his father's depravity, something inside me ignited. Not broken, but fiercely resolved. I would escape his toxic world, protect Leo, and build a real, peaceful life for us, whatever it took. We were leaving. For good.

I came home from a business trip, and my husband told me our six-year-old son was dead. He showed me the dashcam footage of Leo dying of heatstroke, left alone in the car by his young nanny, Kendall. But instead of seeking justice, my husband locked me in the car and turned the heat on full blast, recreating our son's final moments. He demanded the password to my phone to delete the footage, snarling that we couldn't ruin a twenty-year-old's future over a "mistake." To force my hand, he had thugs break into my elderly father's nursing home room, threatening him on a live video call. Later, at our son's memorial, he defended Kendall as she took selfies with the casket and played pop music. He helped her show a manipulated video to the crowd, painting me as a negligent, career-obsessed mother. The mourners threw drinks at me while my husband protected his lover. The next day, I learned the truth. My father, after being blackmailed by those same thugs, had taken his own life to protect me. My husband hadn't just covered up a murder; he had caused another. He thought he had won, that he had destroyed all the evidence and broken me completely. But he forgot one thing. The GPS smartwatch on our son's wrist. It recorded everything—not just his death, but every cruel, taunting word Kendall whispered as she let him die.

"Yes, Dad. I agree." My voice was steady, my eyes fixed on a ceiling crack. My father needed a lifeline for his company, and I, Ava, was his duty, a merger by marriage. But before I could even process the words, my stepbrother, Liam, snatched the phone from my hand, his grip crushing, his eyes blazing. "Who the hell are you marrying?" he snarled, a harsh laugh ripping through him when he learned of my defiance. "You live in my house, Ava. Everything you do is my business." For a decade, I had silently loved him, only to be yanked back into his cruel games. Just last week, his drunken confession of "Maybe it's always been you" had sent my foolish heart soaring, before Chloe' s reappearance instantly turned him cold. He'd discarded my cherished birthday gift, a hand-carved bird with a broken wing, into the trash, a brutal symbol of his rejection. Then, Chloe vandalized the only photos I had of my deceased mother, and Liam let her. My world crumbled. How could the boy who once swore to protect me become this monster? Dragged into public humiliation by Chloe's staged shopping fiasco, then publicly shamed by Liam online as an "obsessed stalker" to appease her. Abused physically, thrown into a sterile hospital room, forced into a procedure he believed would "solve his problem," all under the terrifying lie that I was pregnant to trap him. The utter violation, the betrayal of my trust and body, left me hollowed, a profound and sickening realization that I was merely a tool, a replacement for some lost love, Eleanor. But their cruelty ignited something new within me. No more. I gathered the last remnants of my strength, my silent tears replaced by a chilling resolve. It was time to leave, to finally break free from this gilded cage, and reclaim myself.

I sacrificed everything for my husband, Ryan. My ambitions, my career, even turning down a dream job in another city to support his perfect image. I managed our home, believed his promises of devotion, and trusted him completely. Then, his college girlfriend, Chloe, reappeared after her husband's tragic death. He flew to her side, claiming to offer comfort. But when he returned, he brought her straight to our home, introducing her as though she belonged. That night, I heard them. Chloe' s soft voice, "I can' t believe she' s not even here to greet you." And Ryan' s reply, a cold, dismissive murmur that shattered my world: "Don' t worry about Ava. She' s just a placeholder, a shield. I married her to keep you from doing something reckless after we broke up. She was never the one." A placeholder. A shield. My entire marriage, a meticulously crafted lie designed to protect him and hide his true love. My heart pounded, a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. In the days that followed, I endured their blatant affair in my own home. My bank account was emptied, my treasured family heirloom was stolen and broken, and I was thrown out of my own bedroom. When I finally confronted them, Ryan brutally struck me, then coldly told me he was divorcing me and I' d get nothing. Yet, despite the pain, I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that something far more sinister was at play. Why had he been so insistent on my "minor surgery" years ago? What dark secrets did he truly hide beyond his betrayal? Driven by a desperate need for answers, I sought a new doctor, uncovering a truth so chilling, it shattered every last piece of my broken life: Ryan had secretly sterilized me, without my consent, ensuring I could never bear children. Now, with nothing left to lose, I began to plot my escape and his ultimate downfall.

My marriage to Kameron Stephens was perfect. He was handsome, powerful, and utterly devoted to me. Everyone said I was the luckiest woman in the world, and I believed them. One afternoon, I went to pick up my best friend’s son from kindergarten. But I froze when I saw my husband, Kameron, kneeling to tie the little boy's shoe. "Daddy, can we get ice cream?" the boy asked. The word slammed into me. Then a beautiful woman—an old friend he swore was just like family—walked up and kissed his cheek. Kameron wrapped an arm around her waist. A perfect family. My perfect husband, with his perfect secret son. The timeline clicked into place with cold precision. He had gotten her pregnant years ago, right after I caught them kissing and he begged me to take him back. All those years I pleaded for a baby, he put me off with sweet excuses, saying he wanted me all to himself. It was all a lie. He already had an heir. I was just a placeholder, a beautiful doll to show off to the world. That night, I hid in the shadows of our home and heard him on the phone with her. "Don't worry," he said, his voice cold. "I'll never let Hailey have a child. The Stephens' fortune will all be for Leo." My world shattered. He had stolen my chance at motherhood and built a family with another woman, while I was left with nothing but a hollow marriage and a legacy of lies.

My husband accused me of putting his assistant in the hospital. He claimed the AC I turned on, despite her protests, caused her to collapse from severe cramps. I was eight months pregnant and the office was dangerously hot, but he still blamed me. To "make it up to me," he invited me to a party at an exclusive club. I woke up on the floor of a glass-walled freezer. Outside, my husband, Austen, stood with his arm wrapped around a perfectly healthy Deb. He raised a glass to the city’s elite, toasting to “cooling down” his hot-headed wife. They watched as his men stripped me to my underwear and forced my bare knees onto a floor of ice. They poured buckets of freezing water over my head and my pregnant belly until I felt a warm trickle between my legs. I was bleeding. I was losing our baby. While I lay there, Austen pounded on the glass, screaming at me to apologize, to tell him I forgave him so he wouldn't have to be the monster. He sneered that I was all alone, that my father was dead and no one was coming to save me.

For seven years, I was his eyes, his hands, his constant companion. I nursed Ethan through his blindness, celebrated his sight's return, and eventually became his lover. I truly believed our bond, forged in his darkness and my unwavering devotion, was unbreakable. But in the quiet bubble of his Escalade, I clearly understood every crisp Spanish word he spoke into his tablet. He told his best friend, Ben, that his elopement with Victoria, the woman who abandoned him when he went blind, was set for tomorrow. He chuckled, assuring Ben, "Sarah doesn't need to know. She'll always be there. She's not going anywhere." My breath hitched as Vicky's brazen Instagram pictures of her marriage license confirmed their triumph, dated that very morning. He barely registered my presence, quick to dismiss me, focused only on a message from his new wife. At my own birthday party, Victoria gifted me a yapping Chihuahua, deliberately playing on my deep-seated trauma from a childhood dog attack. Ethan pressured me to accept it, blind to my terror, then watched as I was drenched and cut by a collapsing champagne tower, shielding Victoria instead of me. Seven years of sacrifice, of pouring my soul into his recovery, all reduced to a casual dismissal and a public humiliation. How could he betray me so utterly, so casually, after all I'd done, after I gave him back his world? My love wasn't a doormat, and he was wrong. He thought I'd always be there, but this was the final breaking point. I would sever this tie that had become a chain and disappear. I would contact Eleanor Hayes, his powerful mother, to help me vanish, for good.