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Seven Years, A Shattered Promise

Seven Years, A Shattered Promise

5.0
LGBT+ Noah

On the giant screen in Times Square, Chloe Davis, radiant in red, slammed the gavel, and "Davis Innovations" exploded in green numbers. I stood in the crowd, a ghost she couldn't see, having spent seven years in her shadow, building her dream, waiting for the promise she' d made: "It will be you and me, Alex." Then, a reporter' s question boomed from the speakers: "Rumors of an engagement?" Chloe' s smile widened, one I knew for magazine covers, never reaching her eyes. "The rumors are true," she said, her voice smooth as glass. "I'm engaged to Ethan Hayes. He's my rock." My world dissolved. I walked away, calling her back later. "Don't be difficult," she said. "I was going to tell you." When I arrived at the sterile penthouse, she walked in with Ethan Hayes. "I made that soup for him," she whispered, pointing to the stove. "His stomach is sensitive. You're a survivor, Alex. You'll be fine without me. But he… he only has me." Then the final blow: "I need you to move out. I'll have a check cut for you. For your… contribution." "What else would it be about?" she asked, genuinely confused when I laughed, crumbling the five-million-dollar check she offered as payment for seven years of my life. She thought everything had a price. As she fielded a call about flower orders, Ethan flashed a flicker of triumph, a cold calculation that revealed the "fragile" boy was a predator who had won. But I finally saw the omega symbol on Ethan's collar – my symbol. The one from the necklace she wore, then gave to him. The rage solidified into something colder. "Keep your money, Chloe," I said, letting the check fall. "But there is something of mine I want back."

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My Bitter Brew: A CEO's Regret

My Bitter Brew: A CEO's Regret

5.0
LGBT+ Gavin

For seven years, I poured my life into Artisan Ales, brewing the beer that built our empire, secretly married to its co-founder and CEO, Chloe. Tonight, at our success party, I expected her to finally announce us, our shared journey, our partnership. Instead, she introduced a fresh-faced intern, Liam, giving him full credit for my life' s work-my signature IPA-and beaming as he winked at her, publicly erasing me from our story. My stomach clenched as applause erupted, not for us, but for Chloe and her new "power duo" with Liam. Later, as she fretted over Liam's fake migraine, Chloe tossed me a cheap, flimsy watch-a pathetic imitation of the expensive one she bought him-an insult that cut deeper than any public slight. "Don't be dramatic," she sighed, dismissing our secret marriage as an inconvenience, solidifying her betrayal. How could the woman who promised "us" and believed in my beer, now treat me like an obsolete relic, a disposable part of her ruthless ambition? The overwhelming feeling wasn't anger, but a hollow, cold emptiness where our shared dreams used to be, replaced by a bitter taste of ash. As the cheap watch ticked, reminding me of my worth in her eyes, a new, chilling resolve set in: I would not just leave, I would reclaim everything that was truly mine. Picking up my phone, I dialed the only other person who truly valued my craft, prepared to cut the cord, not just from the company, but from Chloe for good.

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