The Comeback Queen

My husband Adam and I built our empire on a vow made in blood: "Till death do us part." For fifteen years, that promise was our foundation. Then I found the photos of his mistress. He refused a divorce, trapping me with our vow while she called to announce her pregnancy. He chose her, even hitting me to protect her. At their wedding, I played a recording of him calling me "damaged goods" and "barren." "What use is a wife who can't give you an heir?" he'd asked her. But his mistress had sent me a little wedding gift: a file detailing the kidnapping I'd suffered years ago. It wasn't a random attack. Adam had planned it. He orchestrated it to break me, and in the process, he caused the miscarriage of our only child. The final report in the file was his own medical records. I wasn't the one who was barren. He was. And her baby wasn't his.

For five years, I was Jameson Blair's fiancée. For five years, my brothers finally treated me like a sister they loved. Then my twin, Haleigh-the one who left him at the altar-returned with a fake cancer story. In five minutes, he married her. They believed her every lie. When she tried to poison me with a venomous spider, they called me dramatic. When she framed me for ruining her party, my brothers whipped me until I bled. They called me a worthless substitute, a placeholder with her face. The final straw came when they tied me to a rope and left me dangling over a cliff to die. But I didn't die. I climbed back up, faked my death, and disappeared. They wanted a ghost. I decided to give them one.

I pulled my fiancé from a car wreck just seconds before it exploded. The fire left my back covered in hideous scars, but I saved his life. For the four years he was in a coma, I gave up everything to be his caretaker. Six months after he woke up, he stood on stage at his comeback press conference. He was supposed to thank me. Instead, he made a grand, romantic declaration to Estelle, his childhood sweetheart, who was smiling from the audience. His family and Estelle then made my life a living hell. They humiliated me at a gala, ripping my dress to expose my scars. When I was beaten in an alley by thugs Estelle hired, Julian accused me of making it up to get attention. I lay in a hospital bed, bruised and broken, while he rushed to Estelle’s side because she was "scared." I overheard him tell her he loved her and that I, his fiancée, didn't matter. All my sacrifice, my pain, my unwavering love—it meant nothing. To him, I was just a debt he had to repay out of pity. On our wedding day, he kicked me out of the limo and left me on the side of the highway, still in my gown, because Estelle faked a stomach ache. I watched his car disappear. Then I hailed a taxi. "The airport," I said. "And step on it."

My phone buzzed, revealing a text about a reservation at the city' s most exclusive restaurant. I thought my husband, David, was surprising me with a romantic dinner to celebrate my career success. Instead, I walked into a party celebrating his ex-girlfriend, Jessica Lee, who was glowing and visibly pregnant. My daughter, Lily, stood by their side, looking at me with pure annoyance as David announced, "Anything for you, Jess. And for our baby." Then, Lily chimed in, "Dad even got rid of that stupid dog you hated. He said the special stew for your pregnancy cravings needed a very special ingredient." My beloved champion show dog, Buster, was the "special ingredient." The room went silent as I screamed, "You killed my dog, didn' t you? You killed Buster." David callously admitted it, saying, "It was just a dog, Sarah. A damn dog. It was for Jessica' s health." To my horror, Lily confirmed she had helped him, describing it as a mundane chore. Overwhelmed, my world shattered. David then offered me money: "Go buy yourself a new one. A puppy. You' ll forget all about Buster in a week." The insult, so profound, jolted me into clarity. I pushed his hand away, the money fluttering to the floor, and declared, "I want a divorce, David."

I woke up, not from sleep, but like snapping back into a nightmare I'd already lived. The cramped cabin's stale air, pine scent – hauntingly familiar. Jake stood there, hand out, his voice wheedling: "Sarah, Brenda needs that locket." Brenda. The name sent a cold shiver down my spine. My mother' s locket was still at my neck. Last time, I' d blindly given it to them, believing Brenda' s lies about feeling close to my mom. It was my first, fatal mistake. Brenda claimed it brought her luck, and it did. For her. While I… I died. On a remote hiking trail, an "accident" watched by both Brenda and Jake. His shifty eyes, fixed on me, pushed the same line: "Brenda just feels so close to your mom with it." A predator, I thought. A searing memory flashed: Brenda flaunting my locket, smiling, as I lay broken in that ravine, utterly abandoned. The betrayal, agony, my sickening idiocy pursuing love that led to my death. The sheer injustice burned. But not again. "The locket?" I feigned confusion. "Oh, I think I lost it." His face fell. Good. This time, I would live. I would fight. I just needed to hold on ten more days. My brother, Major Mike Collins, was coming.

My life as Gabrielle Fuller, Nashville' s sweetheart known for songs of love and forgiveness, seemed picture-perfect. My husband, Caleb Scott, the city' s "Kingmaker" producer, publicly repented for his first affair, solidifying our image as the golden couple who weathered any storm. I'd even secured our future with a brutal post-nup years ago, a secret safety net if his "mistakes" ever escalated. Then, one rainy Tuesday, searching for tax documents, I stumbled upon a hidden folder on Caleb' s computer. "Archives," password-protected. I typed the date of his first affair, and it opened to reveal hundreds of video files. My breath hitched. Caleb. And Molly. Not just pictures, but damning videos from last week. I watched as Molly, pregnant, sat on his lap, mocking me. "Gabrielle is easy," Caleb sneered, "She wants to believe in fairy tales. As long as I play the prince, she'll never look behind the curtain." My world imploded. The carefully curated image of our perfect marriage, the love story that fueled my career, was a meticulously crafted lie. My husband, the man who' d promised forever, was a master manipulator, not just cheating but planning to steal my future, my dream of a family, by faking my infertility and adopting the child his mistress was carrying. The pain was a physical blow, yet through the shock, a cold, hard clarity emerged. I wasn't going to collapse. I was going to fight back. And I knew exactly how to make him pay.