ramolaviolet

The story is about how to love oneself and how it changes with beauty

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.

I stood at my engagement party, champagne clinking, Liam's arm around me. Life was perfect. My best friend, Chloe, was there, laughing too loudly, but it was our day. Then Liam took the stage. My heart beat faster, ready for his sweet words. Instead, he announced a "sudden, undeniable change." He said he couldn't marry me. His eyes landed on Chloe. "She's the one." The room gasped. My face burned as everyone stared. My fiancé and best friend, my closest people, publicly humiliated me, smirking as I fled town, stripped of dignity. Years later, having rebuilt my life and married Julian Thorne, a tech mogul, I returned to Lynwood for a quiet work trip. And I saw them. Liam, successful, and Chloe, still his trophy. They sneered, mocking my humble appearance, calling me a failure. When I mentioned my husband, they laughed, accusing me of delusions. Liam then attacked me, snatching Julian' s locket, the symbol of my new life. He broke my hand, screaming I was a liar, a thief. Then his goons dragged me to a dark storage room, locking me in. My hand throbbed, my heart ached with crushing despair. They even found Isabella, the kind staffer who tried to help me, silencing her. Chloe appeared, gloating, telling me I would confess I was a lunatic at their wedding tomorrow, to finally destroy me. How could two people be so cruel, so utterly intent on my ruination? I was trapped, shattered, every hope of justice gone. But as they dragged me into the ballroom, preparing to force my twisted confession, an unexpected presence in the crowd began to rise. Julian.

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.

Everyone knew Ava Chen was just keeping Dr. Julian Vance' s spot warm. He, a brilliant Columbia astrophysicist; I, a New York financial analyst. We were dating, but his great love, my former best friend Chloe, was merely on fellowship, her return an unspoken ticking clock. The clock exploded the day Julian stood me up at City Hall for our marriage license. An Instagram story appeared instead: Julian, smiling, at Chloe' s surprise welcome-back party. My heart didn' t just break; it fractured into a dull, final ache. I shredded the marriage application. Later, Chloe brought a drunken Julian to my apartment, his subtle taunts confirming my place. He then whispered it: "Chloe." The ultimate affront. His cold, indifferent "Take the pill" solidified our transactional reality. I was a placeholder. My deep love unrequited, our relationship a cruel joke of neglect and manipulation. Why did I cling to a love that never truly saw me? But my tears turned to cold fury. I canceled wedding leave, applied for a senior analyst role in London. I would shed the "placeholder" and forge a fierce new beginning, on my own terms.

My little brother, Leo, was dying, dependent on a miracle surgery our family couldn't afford. My only hope was my five-year relationship with Ethan Vanderbilt, the wealthy heir - a relationship I' d clung to despite his growing cruelty. Then, he called me to his penthouse, not for reconciliation, but to introduce Isabella Romano, his new, stunning fiancée. "You were always a bit… much, Mia," he sneered, discarding me for an "upgrade." Public humiliation followed, as society pages lauded their perfect match, branding me the desperate ex. My own father, desperate for Leo' s life, told me I should have "tried harder." Our last hope seemed to vanish. Just when I thought I was at rock bottom, Ethan' s ruthless uncle, Charles Vanderbilt, offered a bizarre lifeline: full funding for Leo' s surgery. The catch? I had to go to a remote Vermont clinic and act as a discreet observer for his "comatose" brother-in-law, Marcus Thorne. Spy on a dying man for the family who' d just ruined me? Why me? What dark secrets was I being forced into? It felt like a devil' s bargain, a humiliation worse than anything Ethan could inflict, and I couldn't ignore the chilling sense of injustice. But for Leo, I' d do anything. So I packed my bags, leaving everything behind for that bleak, uncertain future in Vermont. I expected silent days watching a still form, but the "comatose" Marcus Thorne wasn't so comatose after all. And the very first thing he said to me wasn't 'hello,' but, "As I recall, Mia Hayes, you were my first kiss."

I was just a 20-year-old NYU art history student, interning at my dad’s real estate firm. But my world privately revolved around Marcus Thorne—my father’s handsome, brilliant business partner. My crush on him was pure, all-consuming, utterly naive. He’d always been so kind, a true gentleman. At a charity gala, I watched Izzy Vance, Marcus’s associate, subtly ply him with drinks. When I tried to help him to his suite, Izzy "found" us, her perfectly timed gasp and a discreet phone flash sealing my fate. The next morning, headlines screamed: "NYU Intern Olivia Chen Caught in Compromising Position with Marcus Thorne." Blurry, damning photos accompanied them. Marcus’s icy call followed: "Izzy found you taking advantage of me! My reputation is in shreds because of your childish stunt!" He believed her. Completely. Whispers and hostile stares at my father’s office became unbearable. The kind man I’d adored now looked at me with absolute disgust. My dreams shattered. How could he be so blind? So cruel? This wasn't the Marcus I knew. This felt brutally unfair. That week, the naive girl who worshipped him died. In her place, a colder awareness dawned: the world was not kind, people not what they seemed. He thought I was playing games, but I was done. This was my turning point.

The Montauk Highway rain slammed against our windshield, just like my stomach cramped with familiar, sharp pain. Marcus drove, his knuckles white, until his phone flashed 'Izzy.' My husband, always her loyal puppy, was gone in a flash. "Ellie, call an Uber. Izzy needs me," he' d declared, abandoning me sick and alone on that dark road. It was the ninth time Marcus chose his ex-girlfriend over me, his wife. The 'ninth goodbye' in a cruel bet Izzy orchestrated years ago: "Nine times, Ellie. Nine. Then you walk away." Each incident a deeper cut: my anniversary dinner, my emergency surgery, my grandmother' s memorial. I was just his convenient rebound, his 'consolation prize,' a pawn in their twisted game. Days later, after an elevator accident left me shattered and hospitalized, Marcus cradled Izzy, his terror only for her. I finally saw it with chilling clarity: he never truly loved me. My marriage was a meticulously crafted lie, orchestrated by Izzy from college. My love for him, that foolish, stubborn hope, was finally drained, leaving only an aching void. But the game was over. I had already signed the divorce papers he carelessly overlooked, ready for my freedom. When Izzy later set a vicious trap to publicly shame me, accusing me of assault, a mysterious stranger stepped in, changing everything. This was the end of a nightmare, and the beginning of my true life.

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.

My name is Sarah Miller, and I was on top of the world. Graduating college, a prestigious journalism internship lined up, and madly in love with Ethan Hayes-the powerful, charming heir. Life was perfect. A fairy tale, really. Then, at my graduation party, Ethan dimmed the lights. He projected intimate photos and videos of us onto a giant screen. My world shattered. His cruel smile gone, he announced it was all revenge. My journalist father, he claimed, had ruined his first love, Olivia, with an exposé, leaving her in a vegetative state. That night, my father died of a heart attack. My mother followed weeks later. My internship vanished. I was ostracized. And I was pregnant with Ethan' s child. Five years later, my daughter Lily developed aggressive leukemia. Desperate, I became Ethan' s personal assistant, enduring his and Olivia' s endless torture, even sexual exploitation, just to pay for Lily's treatments. He even desecrated my father' s grave. How could I have loved such a monster? How could one man inflict such unending, calculated pain on an innocent family? I was just a pawn in his twisted game of vengeance, paying for a 'sin' that wasn't even mine. The humiliation, the despair, the sheer injustice felt suffocating. With Lily dying, I entered a high-risk medical trial to fund her last hope, fully expecting to die. And I did. Then, I woke up. It was the day before everything went wrong. And so did Ethan.

My New York apartment smelled of lilies and roses, and my perfect Hamptons wedding was just three days away. Mark Olsen was everything I'd ever wanted: charming, successful, and devoted. I was about to become Mrs. Mark Olsen, stepping into the solid, perfect future we' d planned. Then a text from an unknown number shattered my world: "Can't believe you're still going through with this sham wedding. Last weekend was proof you belong with ME. Call it off like you promised, or I will. - T." My breath hitched. The words swam before my eyes. Mark was supposedly at a finance conference that very weekend, but my investigative dive into "T" (Tiffany Hayes, his high school ex) revealed glossy photos of her at his hotel, captured during his supposed conference. To add insult to injury, Tiffany was already engaged to another man, Alex Walker. I wasn't just betrayed; I was Mark's desperate fallback plan. Every cherished moment, every promise over our year-long engagement, felt like a sickening, elaborate lie. Why propose, why plan this lavish wedding, if I was just a convenient consolation prize? The thought was humiliating, the destruction of everything I believed our relationship was. My excitement curdled into icy rage. I wouldn't just call off the wedding. I decided to expose them both. This wouldn't be a celebration of love; it would be their public downfall, and I had just the stage for it: our pre-wedding brunch.