Chapter 6 Injuried

My family, the Thompsons, was crumbling, and I was paraded before the powerful elite, the Ashworths, Albrights, and Cartwrights, supposedly to secure a lifeline through a strategic marriage. My childhood friends-Caleb, Leo, and Julian-were the intended targets. But at a humiliating dinner, they didn't just reject me; Julian, the one I'd always trusted, dropped a bomb: it was a bet, a game to see if he could "rehabilitate the fallen Ava Thompson." Shattered, I fled, inventing a boyfriend, a lie that miraculously led me to Nate, a kind outsider who made me feel truly seen. Our fragile peace was my escape, until the day my past violently resurfaced. Nate wasn't just a quiet artist; he was Caleb's vengeful cousin, the mastermind behind the vicious cyberbullying that had nearly destroyed me last year, using my pain to further his own twisted agenda. The betrayal was a gut punch, realizing I'd walked from one manipulator's hands into a far more insidious trap. How could I have been so blind, so foolish, to be used and discarded again and again? But this time, the helplessness curdled into ice-cold rage; I wouldn't be a victim anymore, I would be the architect of my own fate. I meticulously exposed Nate' s dark scheme, watching his carefully constructed life implode. Yet, my father, in a last desperate gamble, drugged Caleb and me, staging a fake engagement scandal to seize control of the Ashworth fortune. Cornered, but seeing an undeniable opening, I turned to Julian, the original betrayer, and whispered, "It was always you." He swallowed the lie, becoming my unwitting protector and weapon. Julian tore down my father, rescued my mother, crushed Caleb, and ensured my absolute safety, believing it was for love. When everything was finally secured, I left him a single, symbolic book-"The Count of Monte Cristo"-and disappeared, finally truly free.

My husband, Ethan, stood in our modern Austin living room, the city' s vibrant skyline gleaming behind him, a dazzling backdrop to the tech empire we had painstakingly co-founded. But his voice was eerily flat, devoid of emotion, as if closing a routine business deal: "I' m in love with Tiffany Hayes. I want a divorce." He offered Innovatech Solutions-the company built from our garage, my strategies disguised by his charming façade-as my 'clean slate,' a magnanimous gesture for his freedom. He paced, warming to his speech, detailing how I' d get all of it: the house, the accounts, everything, convinced he was making a painful, king's ransom sacrifice for his new love. Tiffany, the young and 'vibrant' marketing recruit, soon flooded social media with a carefully curated narrative, subtly branding me as the cold, past version of him he had bravely outgrown. He fully expected tears, arguments, a desperate scene, yet my calm, quiet 'Okay' only caused a flicker of confusion in his eyes, starkly highlighting how profoundly he' d always underestimated me. He genuinely believed I' d be lost without him, the charismatic 'face' of Innovatech, utterly blind to the strategic, brilliant mind that had actually propelled it to success. And terrifyingly, he had absolutely no inkling of the small, secret flutter in my belly, a new life, a profound truth, that gave me a quiet, unsettling well of strength. My understated 'Okay' wasn't capitulation; it was an irrevocable turning point, the methodical opening move in a protracted game of cosmic chess he was destined to tragically lose.

My life with tech billionaire Ethan Hayes, two seemingly perfect children, and a meticulously managed household in New York City, was outwardly flawless, a gilded cage where my tireless efforts remained invisible and unappreciated. I awakened abruptly, not in the sterile care facility of my terrifying premonition where I lay neglected and alone near death, but startlingly, in my own bedroom, vibrant and 35, now burdened with a chilling crystal-clear replay of a future where Ethan' s deep-seated affection for his college sweetheart, Chloe Vance, alongside our children' s gradual alienation, directly led to my abandonment and lonely demise. Recognizing this as a dire warning rather than a dream, I swiftly filed for divorce, deliberately setting the stage for Chloe to replace me, hoping to avert the impending tragedy, a decision that paradoxically accelerated my projected torment. Chloe' s insidious infiltration deepened, turning my children against me, culminating horrifically when my son, EJ, falsely accused me of enabling his severe peanut allergy, prompting Ethan, believing their cruel lie, to forcibly spoon peanut butter into my mouth, and as I choked on the allergen, my children chillingly clapped, proclaiming, "Now she knows!" The excruciating pain of that forced ingestion, quickly followed by EJ's vengeful shove that brutally fractured my ankle-all met with Ethan's callous indifference and Chloe' s feigned concern-left my heart a barren wasteland, utterly consuming every ounce of the love and years of devoted care I had bestowed upon them. With an unwavering, steel-cold resolution, declaring "I' m the nanny. And the nanny quits," I severed every remaining tie, abandoning the mansion and their poisonous presence for a new life, irrevocably free, leaving them to face the consequences of their shocking cruelty.

I woke up on my 21st birthday, the sunlight warm on my face. But this wasn't just another day; it was a chilling memory, a life I'd already lived and lost. I remembered the gala, the Starlight gown, and how my childhood friend Brooke Ashley wore it, smirking. Then came the betrayal: my fiancé Ethan, calling me a spoiled brat, and my brother Harrison, raging at me, while my sick father watched, helpless. They orchestrated my public disgrace, stripped me of my inheritance, and exiled me to a desolate vineyard. There, isolated and slandered, I withered away, dying a slow, agonizing death. Just before the end, a nurse sneered, "This is payback. For embarrassing Miss Ashley." I perished, utterly alone. The sheer, burning injustice still seared, a visceral wound in my soul. How could they, my closest circle, plot such a cruel, elaborate ruin? Why did no one believe me, no one listen? The helplessness, the agony of that past life, was unbearable. But now, I'm back. It's the morning of my 21st birthday again, the Starlight gown already missing. Predictable. But this time, I won't cry. I have the memories, my father' s hidden surprise, and a cold, strategic resolve. The game has just begun, and this time, I' m playing to win.

Ellie Vance. The name spoke volumes: old New England money, Ivy League polish, groomed to be the perfect partner for Governor Will Harrison III. Our wedding plans filled a thick binder, a union of legacy and ambition, celebrated by all. Then came the Kentucky Derby. Will, usually so focused on image, became captivated by Tiffany Rourke, a brash, loud Texas oil heiress-everything I wasn't. A week later, he uttered the chilling words: "I've fallen for Tiff. You're perfect, on paper." He casually suggested I accept a "lesser role" or a quiet end to our engagement, a public demotion unthinkable for a Vance woman. My family's dignity, my very identity, felt assaulted. The heirloom diamond on my finger, once a symbol of promise, now felt tainted and heavy. "You're always so sensible, Ellie. You'll see this is for the best," he'd dismissed, as if my life, our shared future, was a minor inconvenience. A cold, burning contempt replaced my shock. Vances are not "options." We are not "second best." Who did he think I was? A drop of blood bloomed on my pristine wedding binder, a final, painful mark. And a cold resolve set in. My path was clear: I would not just survive this humiliation; I would redefine what winning truly meant. My first call was to Will's mother, Catherine Harrison. Get ready, Washington.

My entire life revolved around Ashworth Creatives, the agency I poured my soul into building, and my fiancé, Ethan. Tonight was meant to be my crowning achievement, sealing a colossal client deal and my future within the powerful Ashworth family who' d adopted me. Then, I saw Ethan' s phone. A text from my manipulative adoptive sister, Chloe: "Heard you' re taking Ava to the gala tonight. Don' t forget our little after-party, just us. ;)" Beneath it, a damning video: Ethan and Chloe, laughing, intertwined in my private guesthouse. Chloe was draped in my deceased mother' s diamond necklace, a "gift" from Ethan, according to his text. My blood ran cold. They weren't just having an affair; they were plotting to use my marriage to secure my assets, then throw me aside, giving my agency to her. The Ashworths had groomed me, controlled me, and now, they planned to discard me like trash. I was a means to their end, and Ethan, their willing, despicable pawn. The gala-my moment of triumph-threatened to become my public humiliation. But a cold, unyielding rage ignited inside me, far stronger than any despair. I wouldn't be their victim; I would dismantle them all, piece by agonizing piece. My fingers flew across my own phone, dialing a number I' d heard whispered about, for "companions." "I need an escort," I stated, my voice flat, holding back a torrent of fury. "Tonight. For the industry gala. For a performance. You need to act like my devoted boyfriend." My revenge would be calculated, public, and absolute.