Gavin

For five years, Liam was my world. I thought we were building a future, heading for marriage, and I even used my connections to get us VIP tickets to a tech conference-a power move for his career. Then, on the giant live-stream screen, I watched him kiss his new assistant, Sarah, a deep, passionate embrace for thousands to see. Hours later, after a dazed walk and a screech of tires, I woke up in a hospital, bruised, concussed, and staring at Liam, who casually informed me he had hit me with his car. He then lied to my face, claiming Sarah was just his boss, and somehow convinced the hospital I had amnesia, painting me as an unstable woman who' d simply "forgotten" our relationship. The humiliation deepened when I discovered his hidden journal-a five-year chronicle of how I was merely a "placeholder," a temporary fix until his true love, Sarah, returned. He tried to reconcile, offering money and calls, but his desperate attempts felt hollow against the truth: he had never seen me as a person, only a convenient stand-in. Then came the final blow: Sarah announced as the new Head of Architecture, taking the promotion I' d worked years for, a public, corporate execution. But just as I thought I' d lost everything, a forgotten connection resurfaced. My Uncle David' s persistent offer of an arranged marriage, a path I' d once dismissed, suddenly glimmered with an unexpected promise. Little did I know, the man I was about to meet wasn't just a family friend, but a quiet, constant presence from my past, ready to offer a future I never dared to dream of.

The dusty box held my father' s medal, a cold, heavy relic of a life shattered too soon. Then the call came – a hospital, an unfamiliar number, and the dreaded news: my brother, Michael, was brutally attacked, barely clinging to life. Memories flooded me: my father's dying wish to protect Michael, the years I spent raising him, only for this monstrous injustice to strike. General Sterling, my father's esteemed colleague, watched with unreadable eyes, while Thorne, the man responsible, sneered about a "bar fight" and sent me chilling threats. Police dismissed my pleas, the media shut down my story, and even Sterling' s socialite fiancée, Victoria, joined the chorus of dismissal, forcing me to confront Thorne alone and sparking a silent battle within me to unveil the truth my brother nearly died for.

The world was a blur of pain, and Kael, my fierce protector, was there to sweep me into his arms, just like always. He was my anchor, the man whose life was bound to mine by a rare, ancient Soul-Link—a sacrifice I'd made without a second thought to save him from poison years ago. I trusted him with my life, literally. Then I saw her. First in a terrifying nightmare, then in Kael's study, a cloaked figure handing him a mysterious ornate box. Her cold, regal eyes haunted my waking thoughts, but Kael swore I was dreaming, soothing my fears with familiar warmth and a tangible clue about my missing sister, Seraphina. He couldn't be lying, not when our very souls were linked. My trust shattered when I saw Lyra again, stepping out of a gilded carriage, announcing her engagement to Kael. They'd been engaged for years, uniting two powerful families. I was nothing but a temporary amusement, a pet he'd picked up. His betrayal sent a searing pain through my chest, amplified by the Soul-Link—a physical manifestation of my broken heart. How could he cause me such profound emotional agony, yet share my physical pain so deeply? The contradiction tore me apart. He looked at me with genuine worry, yet continued to lie, continuing this elaborate deception. Why? What was this bond to him? Just a burden? I found my answer, not in his words, but in the truth. The man with Lyra was his twin brother, a calculated deception to manage his political life. I wasn't just a secret; I was a fully separate life he was living. My heart shattered. I learned then that the "medicine" he gave me daily wasn't a cure for the Soul-Link's pain, but a slow poison, ensuring my dependence, my control. He blamed me for the link, twisting my sacrifice into a curse. So I ended it, plunging a letter opener into my own heart, severing the Soul-Link, and sending him an agonizing final message of shared oblivion.

The biting wind was a familiar friend, a stark contrast to the burning rage that had consumed me before I died. I remembered the lavish coming-out party for Chloe, the daughter I had poured eighteen years of love and wealth into. She stood on stage, under glittering chandeliers, and pointed to a famous actress, declaring her as her real mother. "My achievements are all thanks to my parents\' superior genes," Chloe' s voice, dripping with contempt, echoed in my memory. "You had nothing to do with it. You robbed me of eighteen years of mother-daughter bonding!" The crowd' s judgment turned into a torrent, fueled by my ex-boyfriend and Chloe' s biological father, Mark, who stood beside the actress, smirking. They had conspired to ruin me, take my company, and silence me forever. And they almost succeeded. They drove me to my death, celebrating as they moved into the home I had built. I died, consumed by betrayal and injustice, wondering why the world had allowed such a vile family to flourish at my expense. But then, I was back. Back to the very day it all began. The day Mark first brought a baby to my door, expecting me to clean up his mess. This time, things would be different.

The air in the penthouse reeked of success, a scent I barely remembered. Facing Liam Hayes, the tech titan I once knew as a struggling professor, I felt my nails dig into my palms. My design firm was ashes, my reputation ruined, and my father lay dying, all thanks to him. He offered me fifty thousand dollars-insulting, yet just enough for my father' s surgery-to marry a reclusive billionaire in his protégé's place. My pride was a luxury I couldn't afford. But as I clutched the check, a overheard conversation shattered everything: Liam' s revenge wasn' t heartbreak. He' d orchestrated my downfall, my company' s ruin, and even my father' s "accidents," wanting to see me broken and begging. Back at the hospital, fresh tests revealed the fifty thousand was a mere down payment; my father needed continuous, expensive care, or the surgery would only buy him months. Liam had known. He' d given me just enough hope to hang myself. Then, a friend revealed the final, devastating truth: Liam' s empire, everything he was, was built on my forgotten sacrifice-I' d anonymously funded his failing startup, selling my award-winning design to save him. The irony was a brutal blow, the realization that I had saved him, and in return, he had systematically destroyed me, my family, and even the child I didn' t know I carried, now lost to the stress he inflicted. My father' s life was still in Liam' s hands, a chilling reminder of my powerlessness. But when the call came, confirming my father' s death, Liam' s carefully constructed game shattered. He' d lost his leverage, and I, stripped of everything, suddenly found a terrifying, liberating freedom. The man who sought my ultimate suffering would now face my unyielding resolve.

The hospital room was a blank canvas compared to my mind-empty, save for the rhythmic beep of a machine. I was Ava, or so they said, suffering from amnesia after a car accident. Liam, my dashing fiancé, and Chloe, my teary-eyed sister, were constants by my side, weaving a perfect narrative of our lives: a successful businesswoman, heiress, engaged to be married. But their perfect picture began to fray. Fragments of memories, sharp and brutal, flashed in the dark: a swerving car, screeching tires, a look of terror-and something else-on Chloe' s face, Liam' s white-knuckled grip on the wheel. These didn't feel like accidents; they felt like lies. The diamond ring Liam pressed into my hand felt heavy and foreign, a symbol of a life that wasn't mine. Then, the shattering realization: a faded photo, Liam leaning into Chloe, a shared secret smile, while I stood between them, an outsider. The truth began to surface, cold and undeniable. The accident wasn't an accident. Liam and Chloe, my supposed loved ones, were conspirators, their devotion a carefully crafted facade. He was cheating with my sister, and I was merely a pawn in their scheme to seize my family' s fortune. The "caring" gestures, the possessive touches – they were traps. The house, our supposed home, became a gilded cage. How could I have been so blind? How could the two people closest to me orchestrate such a cruel betrayal, even attempting to end my life? The indignity burned, replaced by a searing clarity: I was not a victim, but a survivor. With a throbbing arm and a heart hardened by rage, I knew I couldn' t stay. This wasn't just about reclaiming my memories; it was about exposing their deception and forging a new path, a life on my own terms, free from their lies.

The camera flashes were blinding, a storm of light. My fiancé, Ethan, stood at the podium, his hand clutching mine, whispering sweet nothings for the reporters. He declared his eternal love, sacrificing his ambitions for my "crippled" self, the pianist whose dream was tragically cut short. But an hour earlier, I'd overheard him and my best friend, Bella. "Her hands… are they permanently damaged?" Bella whispered. "Completely," Ethan confirmed, his voice chillingly cold. "The 'accident' was flawless. She\'s a cripple, Bella. You have nothing to worry about." My world shattered. The car crash, the botched surgery-all a meticulously planned lie. My supposed recovery was overseen by Dr. Ben, who had helped Ethan ensure I would never play again. I lay in a hospital bed, my bandaged hands a testament to their cruelty, left to grapple with the shocking betrayal. How could the man who promised me forever, the one I loved, orchestrated such a heinous plot? The deeper I looked, the more horrifying truths unravelled: I was drugged for months to appear unstable, and the tragic miscarriage I suffered wasn\'t natural-he had murdered our unborn child. The love I thought was real was a delusion, a carefully constructed cage. With nothing left to lose, and fueled by a cold, searing rage, I stopped merely existing. I was no longer a victim. I was a survivor, and I would make them pay. My escape wasn't just about leaving; it was about orchestrating their downfall, piece by agonizing piece.

The heavy champagne glass felt wrong in my hand; I was thirty-six, not sixteen, moments from my life imploding. But here I was, back at my sweet sixteen party, the terrifying start of two decades of hell. My step-sister, Chloe, just offered me a spiked drink, the same one that had once drugged me, leading to a staged scandal that branded me a gold-digger and forced me into a loveless marriage with Liam, my cold, manipulative fiancé. I remembered every agonizing detail: the public humiliation, Liam' s family discarding me like trash after I' d bled myself dry saving their failing business, and my eventual lonely death in a hospital bed. I clutched my glass, a spark igniting in the darkness of my memories-I knew the script this time, and I was going to burn it to the ground.

The post went live at 8:00 PM, announcing my engagement to Ava Green, the woman I' d chased for three years. My heart was full; our future, a perfect blueprint, finally felt real. Then, her phone rang. It was Ben Carter, her childhood friend, and the way she fled to the balcony, her face pale, sent a jolt of dread through me. She returned to tell me Ben' s grandmother was dying and had one last wish: to see him settled with a fiancée. He wanted Ava, my fiancée, to pretend to be his for a few days to grant a dying woman peace. "A small lie?" I scoffed. We were getting married in less than two months, and she was willing to fly across the country to play house with her ex-crush. My carefully constructed world crumbled as she packed, ignoring my pleas, placing my brand-new engagement ring on the nightstand. She walked out, leaving me in a deafening silence. As I stared at the ring, a white-hot rage surged through me. Three years, my devotion, all thrown away for a lie. She chose him, manipulated by his family drama. This wasn' t just about her; it was about proving something. What if I showed her a man who was truly settled, with a fiancée? I picked up my phone, scrolled to a name I hadn't thought of in years, and made a call. "Chloe," I said, my voice strange. "Are you busy on October 8th? Do you want to get married?"

For seven years, I lived a quiet life as a musician, believing my wife, Sophia, kept her distance to protect my "fragile artistic temperament." It was a story I told myself, a reason for the cold silence of our marriage. But that carefully constructed world shattered when I overheard her whispering another man' s name in the moonlight-her half-brother, Liam. The whispers festered, revealing a truth more agonizing than I could have imagined: her passion, her longing, was all reserved for him. My heart was ripped to shreds, but the true horror began when Liam, fueled by jealousy and encouraged by Sophia, viciously attacked me. Not only did she abandon me, she even robbed me of my painkillers from the hospital, claiming Liam needed them more for a measly foot injury. I didn't understand. How could the woman I loved disregard my broken ribs so easily, while doting on a spoiled, entitled man-child? Why did my pain mean nothing to her, while his minor discomfort became her world? My life, my very art, had been built on a foundation of lies. Then came the twisted game, a cruel choice forced upon Sophia: save me or Liam. With a gun to my head, and my final words telling her I hoped to never meet her again, she chose him, declaring her unwavering devotion to her brother. I didn't die that day, but the man I was did. Now, free from her toxic embrace, and with hands that may never play guitar again but a spirit finally unbound, I am ready to forge a new path. Sophie, however, is left to face the empty silence of a life without the man who once gave her everything.

The sterile white hallway of the hospital echoed with the sickening crack of bone. It was my bone, shattered by Daniel Hayes, the man who once swore to cherish me. He'd just slammed my hand against the wall, shielding my ex-best friend, Chloe Davis, who feigned tears behind him. Chloe, the architect of my ruin, had twisted Daniel's amnesia, painting me as a gold-digger and our son, Ethan, as a child of questionable paternity. Daniel, stripped of memory, looked at me with cold fury, then at our infant son with contempt. "Get out," he spat, threatening security. My son, innocent in his bassinet, was disowned. The man who wept with joy at our ultrasound now called his own son a bastard, even shoving Ethan's high chair over, causing a severe injury. His cruelty knew no bounds; I sold our last symbol of love, my engagement ring, for Ethan's surgery, only for Daniel to steal our son at gunpoint. My pleas fell on deaf ears; the police sided with the powerful CEO, and a fabricated court order made me an unfit mother. How could he forget everything? How could he believe such monstrous lies? The man I loved was gone, replaced by a ruthless stranger determined to erase me. But a mother's rage is a force no amnesia can quell. With nothing left to lose, I swore to take back my son, even if it meant tearing down the empire he'd built on our shattered past.

The sharp sting across my cheek snapped my head back, my hair flying. It came from Chloe, the young intern, whose hand was still raised, her eyes wide with a calculated fear that twisted into a perfect lie. "Ava, I'm so sorry," she whispered, staging a stumble that sent her crashing dramatically to the floor as Leo, my fiancé, burst into my office, his face a mask of thunderous rage. He didn't even glance at me, rushing straight to Chloe' s side, cradling her as she sobbed a manufactured tale of my jealousy. His mother's smug voice suddenly echoed from his phone, "Leo, I told you she was unstable. Not fit to be part of our family." And then, his command, "Apologize to Chloe." Followed by a terrifying countdown, leveraging my younger brother Finn's fragile mental state against me. I swallowed the humiliation and forced the words out, "I'm sorry, Chloe." My hand, resting on my stomach, trembled as a cold dread washed over me-the faint flutter of life I' d felt last week now a lead weight. This couldn't be happening. My perfect life, shattering around me, and I knew, with horrifying certainty, this was only the beginning.

The sterile scent of disinfectant was my daily reminder: my parents were gone, killed in a car crash, and my brother, Alex, was paralyzed. Just seventeen, his vibrant blue eyes had dimmed, and our tiny apartment reeked of medical bills we could barely afford. I, Lily Reed, a waitress barely making rent, was all he had left. Then, like a mirage, Mark Thompson reappeared. Alex' s childhood best friend, vanished since the accident, now a polished, wealthy man. He swept into our lives as a savior, moved us to a luxurious apartment, hired nurses, paid our debts. His charm was intoxicating; I believed he was everything I needed, everything I thought I wanted. So, when he proposed, I said yes, feeling like the final piece of a perfect puzzle had fallen into place-a second chance at a real family, a real life. But at our wedding reception, a low, drunken conversation twisted my stomach: "He had to... it was the only way to keep her quiet about the accident. He owed her." Then, a whisper from Mark on a balcony, meant for his former girlfriend, Sarah: "This marriage is just a means to an end... I got rid of the obstacles, just like I promised." Obstacles. My parents. Alex. The world crashed around me. It wasn't an accident. It was him. My husband, the man I' d given everything to, was the monster who had destroyed my family. I had willingly walked into my own gilded cage. Rage, cold and sharp, ignited within me. He thought he had bought my silence, that I was a naive fool to be gotten rid of. He thought he had won. He had no idea what he had just unleashed. I would play his game, be the perfect wife, and wait. And when the time was right, I would destroy him.

The kitchen was filled with the scent of garlic and basil, a testament to the perfect life Ethan Thorne was building with his fiancée, Olivia. They were soulmates, partners in love and in their shared dream: a restaurant of their own, with a wedding just two weeks away. Then, a whispered phone conversation shattered his world. Olivia, the woman he adored, speaking with venom about his deceased sister, Isabella, and laughing about him as "that fool chef" and "just a toy." He was a pawn in a chilling revenge plot, destined for public humiliation at their wedding. His heart, so full moments before, became a hollow, aching void. Every shared laugh, every tender kiss, twisted into a grotesque lie. His fiancée wasn't his partner; she was his executioner, meticulously planning his destruction for a perceived wrong from five years ago. How could the woman he poured his entire being into be so cruel? How could she look him in the eye, whisper "I love you," and plot his utter breaking? The depth of her betrayal was an open wound, an injustice that screamed silently within him. But Ethan Thorne wouldn't be a victim. He would play her game, right up to the very end. He wiped the tears from his eyes, picked up his phone, and called Professor Davies. "Tell me more about Paris."

My flight home felt endless, a week away from my pregnant wife, Emily, feeling like a year. I pictured her glowing, her smile lighting up the house, ready to welcome me back. But the moment I walked through the door, my world began to fracture. The house was eerily silent, a strange smell in the air, and an overflowing trash can spoke of neglect. Then, Emily' s weak voice called from upstairs, her face pale and clammy, clutching her stomach in pain. At the hospital, a doctor' s cryptic words about "strenuous activity" and needing to be "gentle" left me bewildered, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. I brushed it off, attributing it to stress, clinging to the flimsy explanation when I found a strange bruise on her collarbone-one she vaguely claimed was from clumsiness. But the flimsy facade shattered when I found cigarette ash in our master bathroom sink. I don't smoke, and Emily despises it, making her flimsy explanation about her stepfather stopping by ring hollow. My mother-in-law later confirmed my stepfather-in-law quit smoking years ago, sealing the growing dread in my stomach. Then, my own mother mentioned a new white sedan Emily was seen getting out of, driven by a man-a car I certainly hadn't bought. The pieces clicked into a terrifying mosaic: the doctor' s warning, the bruise, the ash, the unknown man, the mysterious car. But nothing prepared me for the final blow at the doctor' s follow-up: "The fetus is measuring closer to twelve weeks, Mr. Davis." Twelve weeks. A full month older than it should be, a month when I was working fourteen-hour days, thousands of miles away. My world imploded. The doctor wasn't accusing me; he was warning me about her affair. The baby wasn't mine. My wife had cheated, and the life I thought we had built was a cruel, elaborate lie. The man who was supposed to be a father was now the biggest fool. I was a cuckold. And I was going to find out everything.

The blinding pain of childbirth ripped through Sarah, but it was the empty chair beside her hospital bed that truly shattered her. Mark should have been there, holding her hand, but his phone was off, just as it had been for hours. Another contraction hit, and alone, sweat-soaked, Sarah delivered her first twin, then geared up to do it all again, frantically trying to reach a husband who had vanished. As she cradled her newborn, a news report flashed on the TV: a sun-drenched beach, turquoise water, and there, laughing, hand-in-hand, were Mark and her best friend Emily, on a "romantic getaway" in Bali. Just then, a cheerful caller informed her the postpartum nanny package she'd paid for had been canceled by her husband. Her blood ran cold. He hadn't just abandoned her; he'd taken everything. A quick check of her banking app confirmed the horror: over eighty thousand dollars, her life savings for the twins, gone. He'd drained it all to fund his sordid escape. The line went dead after her mother-in-law, dismissive and callous, blamed Sarah for not "giving Mark a boy" and for being "careless with her money." The betrayal was absolute, a crushing blow from everyone she thought she could trust. How could she be so blind? How could they betray her so completely, so cruelly? The isolation crashed down, leaving her utterly alone, reeling from a decade-long lie that had just imploded. Just when she thought she might drown in her grief, a cold, sharp voice cut through the haze, forcing her to confront an unexpected intervention and perhaps, a chance to reclaim more than just her babies.

For five years, I, Ethan, dedicated everything to Olivia, my wife. I sacrificed my promising physics career to build her art gallery into a success, endured her family's disdain, and cherished her every whim. I truly believed my unwavering love would one day win her heart. Then came our fifth wedding anniversary-also my birthday. I sat alone in our villa' s vast dining room, special dishes growing cold, waiting for a wife who never came home on time. My phone buzzed with an explosive headline: "Renowned Artist Olivia Hayes Appears at Charity Gala with New Flame, Confesses He is Her True Soulmate." The accompanying video showed Olivia, radiant, holding hands with Liam-a man strikingly similar to her deceased childhood sweetheart. She glowed as she declared him "the one I have been waiting for my entire life." The article added insult to injury: she'd bought him a forty-million-dollar sports car for his birthday, today, my birthday. My carefully built world shattered. How could the woman I' d devoted my life to publicly betray me so utterly, so callously? The contrast, her forty-million-dollar gift to her "soulmate" versus not even a text for her husband, crushed me. Was I just a convenient shield, a placeholder? The hope I' d clung to, a threadbare illusion, finally snapped. With a deep breath, I lit the single candle on my pathetic birthday cake, a ghost of a celebration. "Happy birthday, Ethan," I whispered to myself, then blew it out. And in that wisp of smoke, my love for her vanished too. It was over.

The world slammed back into me in a dizzying rush. One moment, oblivion. The next, I was back in a familiar bed, the sun warm, the scent of roses faint. My heart seized at the June 12th calendar-the day it all began to unravel in my first life, the day before Richard announced he was funneling our savings into his first love' s art gallery. Then he walked in, handsome and dismissive, still my husband, yet a stranger. The sight of him brought nothing but a hollow echo. I stood by the fireplace, a silent observer as Vivian Hayes, ethereal and artfully fragile, entered the room, captivating Richard with a tenderness he' d never shown me. Later, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place: a beautifully wrapped gift, a silver hairpin "Heart' s Sorrow," a sketch Vivian had made, fumbled into my hands by a clearly distracted Richard. My husband had handed me a gift meant for his artistic mistress, the one he had always loved more. The bitter taste of betrayal choked me. This time, I closed the box and pushed it back across the table. "I think you' ve made a mistake," I said, my voice clear as a bell, shattering the forced cheer of the family dinner. The silence was deafening, Margaret' s smile frozen, Richard' s jaw tight, Vivian' s face a mask of shock. I placed my napkin on the table, the desire for divorce no longer a desperate plea, but a cold, final business decision. "If you'll excuse me," I said, walking away from the stunned table, leaving behind the wreckage of a life I was no longer willing to live. I was alive, I was back, and this time, I was going to rewrite my own story.

The acceptance letter for architecture school abroad felt like my escape, a tangible sign I was finally putting myself first after years of playing a role. I was Ava Green, once a vibrant art history student, who threw it all away to become the devoted caretaker for Liam Hayes, the brilliant tech mogul who lost his sight in a devastating accident. His family, grateful for my endless devotion, "helped" my grandmother with her medical bills, creating a silent, crushing obligation that bound me to them and to Liam, for years. I became his eyes, his anchor, abandoning my own dreams to stitch his shattered life back together, believing our shared trauma forged an unbreakable love. But then Chloe Davis, his ex-fiancée, a glamorous concert pianist from his "real" world, returned, and I watched his affection fracture, then shift entirely. At his company' s gala, I saw Liam laugh with Chloe, a genuine, unguarded sound I hadn' t heard in months, a brutal reminder that I was just a placeholder. Later, I overheard Chloe tell Liam that I couldn' t be his partner, "not really," and his silence was all the answer I needed. My heart shattered, the realization hitting me: I was a glorified nurse, easily discarded the moment his true equal returned. The public humiliation came swiftly at a charity gala, when Liam' s sister, Sarah, cruelly exposed me as a "charity case" and publicly shamed me, dousing me in wine, while Liam, lost in Chloe' s orbit, remained oblivious. Why didn' t he see me? Why did he let them do this to me after everything I sacrificed? That night, packing my bags, I knew I had to escape this gilded cage; I would reclaim my life, pay back every cent, and build a future where I was seen, for myself.

The first thing I felt was pain-a searing acid burning my face-as voices outside my hospital room whispered low and urgent. My eyes were bandaged, but I knew the sterile scent of a private ward. This was Noah' s doing, my brilliant tech mogul fiancé, who' d promised me the world. We were the perfect couple, splashed across magazines, set to marry in a week. Then, a woman, twisted with adoration for Noah, threw acid at me. The police called it a jealous fan. My world dissolved into agony and darkness. I lay in that expensive bed, hopeful when I heard Liam, Noah' s manager, and Noah himself, my Noah, just outside. My heart fluttered. He was here for me. But then, Liam spoke, low and clear: "The wedding is next week, Noah. You can't marry her like this." A cold dread replaced the burning on my face. Noah' s voice, flat and devoid of warmth, sliced through any hope: "I'm not going to marry her." The words blurred until he continued, "More severe than I anticipated." He meant the acid. My breathing stopped. He had anticipated it? Liam' s choked whisper confirmed my terror: "You didn't…" "Of course I did," Noah snapped. "That crazy fan? I've had her on a private payroll for months... I just needed something to take Ava out of the public eye permanently. Something that would make her so broken, so grateful for my care, that she' d agree to anything." The world tilted. He wanted me disfigured, dependent, hidden away, his tragic reclusive artist, so he could be free to marry Chloe and bring their son, Ethan, "into the light." Every loving word, every tender touch, was a lie. He didn' t just leave me; he orchestrated my ruin to build his perfect life. The physical pain was nothing compared to the absolute shatter of my soul. But in that wreckage, a cold, hard rage bloomed. He thought he buried Ava. He just created a monster. And I wouldn't stop until he regretted every single thing he had done.