My Stolen Life, My Cold Retribution

ro, promising to save my sick grandmother with his generous insurance. Instead, he ripped

ody every dream I had. With my critically ill grandmother dependent on his

y sleeping with Brianna, my best friend and houseguest, for months. Then, with ice i

itals. During the ceremony, he broadcast intimate videos of himself and Brianna, triggering my grandmother's fatal stroke. Adding to the horror, Brianna, m

. What kind of monster would orchestrate such a calculated, brutal betrayal against a dying woman and a vul

th nothing left to lose and a burning need for justice, I returned his ring, declared our life toget

pte

ia

st...keep me updated.

cord. I stood in the master bedroom of the San Francisco penthouse I

y fingertips to my temples, a cold tremor snaking dow

es of a magazine. His Tom Ford suit was flawless, his dark hair perfectly styled

r. The scent of expensive cologne and ambition clung to him. "Everything

dy limp against his. "The

tened as they searched mine. "Tomorrow, we're married. My insurance kicks in. That experimental tr

my knees washed over me. I leaned my forehead against his chest, the fine woo

are of my family,"

htstand. A notification fro

h his hair. "I had to fix a pipe burst in the guest room last week while you

d, a flicker of admiration in m

said with a dismissive wave.

ything I felt into the pre

m. Curled on the plush sofa, looking small and pale, was Brianna

ay, replaced by a soft, protective warmth. I knelt by the so

leaving her adrift. "I'm okay," she murmured. "I was just...I had a dream. There was this ma

usion-that she might latch onto familiar faces and construct false narratives. She had been living with us for months now, a

led away as the fierce concern of a future brother-in-law. I didn't know-couldn't have known-that he was st

al dinner?" Cyrus suggested, his voice soft. "I'l

loved this man, this life they were building, a life where I could shelter

ines around his eyes tightened, his mouth thinning into a hard, impatient line. H

ng gown. Custom couture, delicate lace and hand-sewn pearls, a physic

d. I couldn't make out the words. A frown flickered across my face before I dismissed i

hind me. I turned, expecting to

rm, supportive fiancé was gone. In his place was

reamble, no emotion. Just a statement of fact. "F

rds were just sounds, failing to connect into anything meaningful. A sma

. "She's not well. She needs stability. After we're ma

mall, odd incidents-excuses for him to be in the apartment, in the guest room,

mbling thread. "Wh

e done what's necessary." His gaze shifted

ife that had never existed. The late nights I'd spent alone, the times he'd claimed to be working, the way Brianna's eyes always lit

. He grabbed a pair of heavy shears

athed, the sound t

. A sickening, tearing sound filled the clos

e from my throat as I lung

clothes. "This wedding isn't about you, Aria," he said, his voice da

hard. The crack of impact echoed in

"Do that again," he said, his voice a low threat, "and I'll call Stanford's ethics comm

plaint. I'd thought it was from a jealo

f the nightmare s

soft, timid voice called out

vanished, the mask of gentle concern snapping back in

art. Aria and I were just d