Waldo Friesinger

For three years, I played the role of the submissive, boring fiancée to pay off a blood debt. My mother gave her kidney to save the Moretti Matriarch, and in return, I was promised to Dante, the heir. A life for a life. I cleaned his estate and wore his ring while he treated me like furniture. But my silence only bought me humiliation. Dante didn't just cheat; he brought his mistress, Roxy, into our home for dinner. He called me a "glorified housekeeper" on a recording and then broke our engagement via an Instagram post, tagging me to ensure the entire underworld saw my shame. When I went to return the family crest, they wanted a show. Roxy mocked me in front of Dante’s soldiers, snatched my mother’s antique jade pendant—the only thing I had left of her—and shattered it on the dirty club floor. Dante laughed, thinking I was helpless. They thought I was a hothouse flower who would faint at the smell of exhaust. They didn't know the "boring" girl had a racing license hidden under the floorboards. They didn't know I was "Ghost," the legendary underground racer they all bet on. Roxy handed me a spectator ticket to the Death Race, telling me to watch how the big boys play. I took the ticket, but I didn't go to the stands. I walked to the starting line, put on my helmet, and decimated the track record. When I took off that helmet in the winner's circle, Dante’s face went pale. And when Lorenzo Falcone, the most dangerous man in the city, stepped out of the shadows to wipe the blood from my hand and claim me as his own, Dante realized the truth. He hadn't just lost a fiancée. He had signed his own death warrant.

I was Elara Vance, a Juilliard violinist living my dream, with a scholarship and the loving support of my charming boyfriend, Julian Thorne. When he urgently needed my O-negative blood after a supposed sailing accident, I rushed to give it, only to find him perfectly healthy days later, laughing with friends, my half-empty blood bag casually discarded. My "loving Julian" was a monster, boasting about his "masterpieces of revenge" – a cold, cruel game he orchestrated for his jealous friend Seraphina. He'd sabotaged my career, fed me sugar pills after a staged pool accident, framed me for shoplifting, and even publicly humiliated me while declaring his love for another woman. Then, I overheard his final plan: to set fire to my guesthouse during our "romantic getaway", trapping me in his apartment like a prisoner. His every affectionate word, every grand gesture, was a lie designed to break me, turning my love into a searing humiliation and soul-deep betrayal. But I wouldn't be his victim. I fabricated my own fiery demise and escaped to London, reinventing myself as "Nightingale," a celebrated violinist. When Julian, consumed by a disturbing obsession, dragged me back to New York, announcing our forced marriage, I knew the lavish wedding would be the perfect stage for my ultimate counterattack.

I stood at the edge of the ballroom, a black blot on my husband’s perfect canvas. While Jensen Carlson stood under the crystal chandeliers as the master of his universe, the guests whispered that his "friend" Aubree was a much better match for him than I ever could be. My stomach was twisting in sharp, jagged cramps from what I knew was acute appendicitis, but to the Carlson family, I wasn't a wife—I was a utility. My mother-in-law called me a "drill bit" and ordered me to drive Jensen home like a servant because his "optics" mattered more than my internal organs. When I arrived, Jensen didn't ask why I was shaking; he just snapped that my black coat was "depressing" and told me to stop "fidgeting" with my medication. He spent the night whispering to Aubree, then came home and fed my divorce papers into a shredder, mocking me for thinking I could survive a week without the Carlson name. The next day, he humiliated me in front of my entire department, accusing me of flirting with staff just as I was about to collapse from the pain. I had given up my PhD for this man and secretly written the code that built his billion-dollar empire, yet he viewed me as nothing more than a "depreciating asset." Even as I lay shivering on the hardwood floor because his mother locked the guest rooms to force me into his bed, he only sneered, asking if he was "that repulsive" when the pain made me vomit. "If you're not in the car by seven, I'll cut off your grandfather's medical funding." That was the final thread. I didn't go to the gala. Instead, I reclaimed my original patents, wiped my server access, and met him on the curb with a cardboard box and a resignation letter. "I'm not your wife anymore, Jensen. And I'm not your employee." As my Uber pulled away, leaving him clutching a revoked patent and a divorce petition, I realized I wasn't losing everything—I was finally starting to breathe.

For nearly a decade, I was the perfect wife to Grant Sloan, sacrificing my own dreams to support his meteoric rise. But when I saw a photo of him at a company gala with his young intern, Kylee, his hand on her back and a smile I hadn't seen in years, I knew my marriage was over. My world shattered further when my younger sister, Aubrie, was assaulted by her boss. I begged Grant, a top lawyer, to help her. He coldly refused, claiming his caseload was full, only to later stand in court as the defense attorney for my sister's attacker-who turned out to be Kylee's brother. The betrayal was absolute. Fueled by Kylee's vicious online campaign, Aubrie was driven to suicide, jumping from the courthouse roof as Grant and I watched. The final, sickening blow came when Kylee desecrated Aubrie's grave, grinding her ashes into the dirt over a plot she wanted for her dead puppy. Grant, finally seeing Kylee's monstrous nature, brutally punished her and her brother. He came back to me, broken and begging for forgiveness, even staging a grand public proposal. He thought his remorse could erase the blood on his hands and the ashes on the ground. I looked at the man who had destroyed my life and offered him a single word. "No."

My life was perfect for ten years, filled with love from my husband, Mark, and our son, Liam, as I created beautiful jewelry. Then, a horrific car accident shattered everything, leaving Liam severely injured. Doctors said Liam needed extensive skin grafts, recommending I, his mother, sacrifice my own skin to avoid scarring. Despite my sensitivity to pain medication, I endured excruciating procedures, my body becoming a patchwork of healing wounds, all for my son. I overheard Liam and Mark: the "skin grafts" were a lie. My pain, my sacrifice, was for my twin sister, Scarlett, to fix a botched cosmetic surgery. My husband and sister had been having a decade-long affair, meticulously orchestrating a grand deceit. My perfect life was a calculated cage of betrayal, the love I felt a one-way street ending in humiliation. The scars on my body burned with a different pain now, a mark of their monstrous deceit. Rage, cold and pure, replaced my despair. I wouldn't just be heartbroken. I would burn their world to the ground.

Dr. Evelyn Reed, one of the city' s most respected veterinarians, always put her animal patients first, a dedication that had earned her a quiet but fierce reputation. But her professional world was about to shatter around the deathbed of her difficult client, Mr. Harrison, a wealthy man whose golden retriever, Champ, was her true patient. In his final breaths, Mr. Harrison shockingly accused Evelyn of being his abandoned wife, claiming she' d taken his money and left him to die. Her ex-boyfriend and supervisor, Dr. Mark Johnson, cruelly presented fabricated texts as "evidence," publicly humiliating her, while young interns, whom she' d mentored, turned on her, their faces filled with judgment. The nightmare intensified as Mr. Harrison' s cousin, Brenda, and a disgruntled ex-employee, Todd, burst in, physically attacking Evelyn, destroying her phone, and further painting her as a monster, all while Mark stood by, then shoved her, demanding she kneel and apologize, cementing her isolation and despair. How could a life built on integrity unravel so quickly and viciously, by the lies of a dying man and the betrayal of those closest to her? With her career, reputation, and dignity in ashes, Evelyn, cornered and with nothing left to lose, knew she had to fight back.

After losing my family and fortune, I became Ethan Hayes's prisoner, trapped in his opulent mansion, relentlessly forced to repay a debt I didn't truly owe. My only value to him was my kidney, a perfect match for his ailing sister, Chloe, the one he held above all else. Ethan controlled every aspect of my existence, subjecting me to relentless humiliation. Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, I found myself pregnant with his child—a child he believed he could never father. I swallowed a bitter cocktail of abortion pills, vowing that this child would never serve as another pawn in his twisted game of revenge. At Chloe's lavish birthday gala, Ethan didn't just publicly broadcast a humiliating video of my most vulnerable past; he later stood by as Chloe cruelly orchestrated the death of Buddy, my beloved Golden Retriever, my last shred of solace. Their combined malice shattered me, pushing me to an unbearable breaking point. How could I endure such pervasive evil, constantly reminded of a debt that wasn't solely mine, subjected to such calculated torture and public disgrace? My despair transformed into a burning, unyielding resolve to defy him one final time. I secretly held one devastating card: a severe anesthesia allergy, a fact conveniently absent from his records. On that sterile operating table, as he prepared to claim my kidney, I would not just die; I would ensure his hard-won victory, his twisted revenge, and his very definition of control crumbled to ash in his hands. My death would be my ultimate act of rebellion, unraveling his carefully constructed lies and finally granting me release.

Sarah Miller was the golden child of the Culinary Institute of America Prime, her perfect knife cuts and innovative dishes earning her an easy path to culinary stardom. Then, out of nowhere, Brittany, the clumsy, struggling student, presented a dish that was not just extraordinary, but impossibly perfect, far beyond her capabilities. My own critically acclaimed duck was overshadowed, then my skills mysteriously vanished, causing me to fumble even the simplest techniques. Dean Antoine, my mentor, publicly accused me of fraud, expelling me from the prestigious CIAP in front of baffled critics. I was left broken, my career ruined, cleaning grease traps in a rundown diner, while Brittany became a national sensation. How could her sudden genius be so flawless, so familiar, borrowing my very ideas before I could even develop them? Was I going crazy, or was this calculated? Then I remembered the tiny, almost invisible blinking device Brittany wore. A cold realization hit me: her "genius" wasn't her own; it was stolen. Whatever it was, it was also actively draining me. They wanted me gone, but they had awakened something far more dangerous: a chef who understood true skill wasn't about flashy tricks, it was about rock-solid fundamentals, and I would master every single one to expose the truth and reclaim my name.

Summer Hayes, a quiet scholarship kid, poured her heart and savings into a magical promposal for her secret crush, Kingston Academy's golden boy, Ethan Prescott. He was the only one who saw her, even defending her once, making her believe he was different. But just as she waited, her phone buzzed. Her glitchy "ghost channel" app, a live stream of the elite, showed her decorated gazebo. The chat exploded with cruel comments, then Ethan' s best friend outlined the "plan": Ethan's identical twin, Caleb, would pretend to accept, then publicly humiliate her, all while Ethan watched for sport. Her carefully crafted dream shattered. The boy she admired was a predator, turning her vulnerability into perverse entertainment. As Caleb arrived, feigning surprise, the depth of Ethan's betrayal burned, searing cold. How could someone so seemingly kind be so utterly cruel? The initial shock dissolved into a chilling, furious resolve. They wanted a show? They' d get one, but not the one they planned. As Caleb approached, Summer took a shaky breath, tears stinging. "Oh, Ethan," she began, correcting herself with a tearful sigh. "I mean, Caleb. This looks like it' s for Ethan, but it' s not. It' s for you." The game was on, and Summer was ready to play to win.

My six-year-old son, Danny, was vibrant and healthy, until my estranged wife, Sarah, demanded he donate his liver to her ex-lover, a washed-up football star. As a paramedic, I knew the devastating risks, but Sarah, blinded by her obsession with this "hero" figure, forced the surgery through. Soon after, in the pediatric ICU, Danny hemorrhaged and urgently needed blood - O-negative, Sarah's blood type. But Sarah was at the "hero's" lavish "welcome home" party, celebrating, utterly dismissing my frantic calls as "drama." My son died that day, his tiny hand growing cold in mine, while his mother reveled in the reflected glory of a man she idolized. Then came the crushing truth: Sarah had pushed the surgeons for a riskier, expedited procedure, declaring Ace Henderson's life the absolute priority. Still, the final, unforgivable horror was yet to come. At Danny' s treasured Little League field, where I went to scatter his ashes, Sarah and Ace showed up for a live PR stunt. Ace' s nephew, egged on by them, snatched Danny' s baseball urn, spilled his ashes onto the pitcher' s mound, and then stomped on them, gleefully shouting, "Strike three, you' re out!" I was held back, screaming, watching my son's last remains obliterated by the very people he died for, by a mother's monstrous indifference. How could such calculated cruelty be unleashed upon a child's memory, by those who should have protected him? A part of my soul died on that dusty field, leaving only a vast, echoing void. I vanished, abandoning my old life, certain peace was forever beyond my grasp. But a discovery, a fragile legacy left by Danny, might just offer a path through the darkness.

For nine years, my life was a gilded cage, controlled by Wall Street titan Mark. My photography dreams withered under his shadow, and ten forced abortions left me a hollow shell, each ending with his manipulative charm or self-pitying tears. The latest procedure, just yesterday, left me weak, but I still had to pick him up. I found him at the awards dinner, his arm around Jessica, his intern. Then he kissed her, publicly, and announced her pregnancy. “Sarah, darling,” he slurred, “Jessica’s pregnant. And who better to mentor her than you? You’re practically an expert, aren’t you?” The humiliation burned. He mocked my pain, then tore my dress, doused me in champagne, and snarled about his iron-clad cohabitation agreement. Rescued by my childhood best friend, Alex, I ended up in the hospital, my fertility gone. Mark then falsely accused me of sabotaging his company with Alex, slapped me, and forced me to sign a chilling "consent form," threatening Alex's ruin. Soon, I was drugged and barely clothed, shivering in a glass enclosure. It was a depraved auction, with men bidding on me. Mark’s taunts echoed: "Alex couldn't be bothered." Was I truly abandoned? My heart sank, consumed by despair. How could this be my life? Just as all hope seemed lost, a calm voice cut through the noise: "I bid all of it." It was Mr. Harrison, Alex’s trusted lawyer. A sudden, unbelievable turning point. My rescue had begun.

The night after the SAT ended, my sister sent me a wish list. "iPhone for 10,000 yuan, tablet for 5,000 yuan, computer for 8,000 yuan, clothes for 3,000 yuan, cosmetics for 2,000 yuan... totaling 50,000 yuan." I am just a working person with a monthly salary of 3,000 yuan, and my parents are both laborers. How can I come up with so much money for her all at once? Our family scraped together and could only give her 20,000 yuan. But she not only didn't appreciate it, but also threatened to jump off a building. My parents and I had no choice but to borrow money from everywhere, working multiple jobs a day to repay the debts. When my parents died in a car accident due to overwork, my sister and her boyfriend were still indulging in luxury at a five-star hotel. I also succumbed to the overwhelming pressure and depression and ended up committing suicide. After being reborn, I personally sent her to work at a corrupt factory, and she became obedient.

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.

My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine. Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family. To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset. They both thought I was a broken doll they could control. I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice. She sang it, and now her career is over. Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground.

Three days after my fiancé publicly dumped me for my stepsister, the Supreme Don issued a command that silenced the entire estate. I wasn't being cast aside. I was being sold to Damien Russo. The "Broken Don." A crippled, scarred monster rumored to have murdered his last two wives. My adoptive mother, Elena, didn't cry for me. She smirked. To her, I was finally being disposed of. She was so confident I was walking to my death that she decided to loot my corpse before I even left. She forged documents to steal my entire inheritance—my biological mother’s trust fund—to pay for my stepsister’s lavish wedding to my ex. "She won't need money where she's going," my stepsister laughed, wearing a dress bought with my stolen funds. They thought they were sending a lamb to the slaughter. They thought I was too weak, too stupid, and too afraid of the monster to fight back. But they made a fatal mistake. With my aunt’s help, I didn't just find the proof of their embezzlement; I found a weapon. I’m not running from the monster. I’m going to marry him. And when I hand him the evidence that the Herrera family stole from his bride, he won't be my executioner. He will be my vengeance.

I was the perfect Mafia wife, my dowry the foundation of my husband's ambition. I paid for his Yale degree, his tailored suits, and the very mansion he called his own. My reward? He paraded his mistress into my bedroom and declared her his second wife, expecting me to silently finance their affair. They thought they had broken a merchant's daughter. They forgot I was raised by wolves. Armed with a blood chit—a life debt owed to my family by the most feared man in Chicago—I walked into the lion's den. I went to Damien 'The Wraith' Falcone, the Dark Don who rules the Outfit with an iron fist, to demand a simple annulment. But the King of Chicago isn't interested in simple transactions. He saw the steel beneath my silk, the vendetta burning in my eyes. He granted me my freedom, but at a price: my allegiance. Now, I'm a pawn in his lethal game of thrones, caught between a treacherous husband I swore to destroy and a ruthless Don who looks at me with a terrifying, possessive hunger. In a city built on loyalty and betrayal, I'm about to teach them all that a queen's wrath is the deadliest weapon of all.

Standing at the altar of St. Patrick's Cathedral, I waited to marry my wealthy fiancé in front of three hundred of New York's elite. But right before the vows, my phone vibrated in my bouquet. It was a text from my groom: he was backing out because my maid of honor—my supposed best friend—was pregnant with his child. Before the shock of this double betrayal could even settle, his mother dug her manicured claws into my arm and publicly humiliated me. "A woman who can't even attract her own man, how is she worthy of the Doyle name?" She mocked my background, calling me a worthless orphan who only knew how to draw blueprints, turning my broken heart into a public execution of my dignity. The terrified girl inside me vanished, replaced by a dark, burning rage. I didn't understand why I had to let this arrogant family step all over me while they played the innocent victims. I yanked my arm free, tore off my expensive lace veil, and walked straight to the podium to grab the microphone. "The wedding is canceled. The groom is currently busy with my maid of honor." I walked out of the church, leaving them in absolute shock. But as I stumbled onto the street, I fell right into the arms of Damiano Moretti—the exiled, dangerous mafia boss known as the Ghost, who sat in a custom wheelchair. Looking into his cold, storm-gray eyes, I made a reckless, desperate deal. "Marry me."

My husband, Hudson Higgins, used my dowry to buy his way into the Chicago underworld while his family treated me like a servant in my own home. I endured their insults for the sake of my five-year-old daughter, Josie. But then, the unthinkable happened. I found Josie's small, lifeless body by the garden fountain, while my sister-in-law Karly and mother-in-law Eleanor stood by, complaining about their party plans. "She was just too naughty," Karly sneered, adjusting her pearls over my dead child. When I turned to Hudson for help, he looked at me with dead eyes and told me it was just her fate. In that moment of absolute grief, I remembered the words of the ruthless Don Damien Falcone: "Your husband is a man who knows how to close a deal." The truth sliced through me like a blade. Hudson hadn't just ignored the Don's interest in me; he had actively sold me to the Devil of Chicago to buy his seat at the table. He let his family punish me for the very sin he committed. I had lost everything-my dignity, my mother, and now my baby-all sacrificed for a man who traded his wife's body for power. The sorrow in my chest evaporated, replaced by a scorching, blinding thirst for a blood vendetta. After lunging at Hudson and feeling the world explode into white, I opened my eyes to find myself back in the winter of 1928. It was the exact night the nightmare began, and Don Damien Falcone was walking toward me in his penthouse. This time, I won't be the broken bird in his gilded cage. If Hudson wants to use me to climb the ranks, I will use the Don's dark obsession to burn the Higgins family to the ground.

At my boyfriend's poorest moment, I suddenly broke up with him. Later, he became a Don in the Mafia and married me by any means necessary. Everyone said he loved me to the bone. But every night, he brought different women home, deliberately trying to provoke me. I asked no questions, shed no tears, and never disturbed his trysts with his mistresses. He went crazy with rage instead, kissing me fiercely and demanding, "Why aren't you jealous?" He didn't know I was sick. Dying. While he was furiously taking his revenge on me, I was slowly walking toward death.

"Happy Anniversary," my husband said, sliding the separation agreement across the mahogany desk. It was the eighteenth time in five years I had signed these papers. Matteo De Luca, the most ruthless Capo in New York, checked his Rolex with cold impatience. "Sign it, Sera. Bianca is on the ledge again. She needs to see we're over, or she jumps." Bianca. The ward. The broken bird. The woman whose fragile psyche dictated every moment of my marriage. I signed my name, and he left me alone on our anniversary to save her. Again. But saving her wasn't enough. When Bianca pushed me down a flight of marble stairs in a fit of jealous rage, shattering my spine and leaving me paralyzed, I thought Matteo would finally choose me. I was wrong. I woke up in the hospital to find him holding her hand, not mine. "The security footage has been wiped," he told me, his voice void of emotion. "We cannot have a scandal. You fell, Sera. That is the story." He erased the truth. He erased my pain. He protected the woman who crippled me over his own wife. Two months later, he wheeled me into a gala, playing the doting husband while I sat in the chair that was my prison. He didn't know I had a burner phone hidden in my velvet dress. He didn't know that tonight, the obedient wife was going to die on the pavement, and a ghost would rise in her place. I looked at him one last time and dropped the phone in his lap. "I hope she's worth it."

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.