A Twisted Love: Betrayal's Bitter Taste

From the back cover

On my husband Heath's birthday, I sent him a gift: the preserved embryo of the child I had just aborted.

It was my revenge. He had framed my father, driving him to prison and my mother to her grave, all for his mistress, Ember.

When he stormed into our apartment, his face twisted with rage, he slammed me against the counter. "You monster! How could you destroy our child?"

"You forfeited that right the moment you chose Ember over us," I spat back.

But my defiance only led to more horror. He had me committed to a mental asylum where Ember, the architect of my family's ruin, tortured me with electroshock therapy, trying to break my mind.

I feigned submission, then fought back, throwing both of us out of a third-story window. I survived; she was left in critical condition.

Lying in my hospital bed, Heath came to me not with remorse, but with a chilling demand. "Ember needs a tendon graft. You're a match. The surgery is tomorrow."

He thought he had me trapped, that he could force me to sacrifice a piece of myself for the woman who destroyed me.

But as he left to comfort his mistress, I made a call. The next morning, as he begged me not to go through with the "surgery," I walked away, leaving him in the ruins of the life he had shattered. He didn't know this wasn't a surgery. It was my escape, and the beginning of his end.