Left To Die: Now The CEO Begs

From the back cover

On our third anniversary, my husband Marcus walked out on our dinner because his "best friend" Izzy had a crisis.

That was the ninth time he chose her call over my presence. According to the sick bet I made with her years ago, it was game over.

But the true end didn't come in a restaurant. It happened inside a plummeting elevator.

When the cable snapped and the emergency brakes slammed us to a halt, I lay trapped under debris, my leg fractured and head bleeding. Izzy, terrified but scratched-free, screamed for help.

Marcus didn't even look at me.

He stepped over my broken body to scoop her up.

"I've got you, Iz," he whispered, carrying her out to safety while I lay alone in the dust, gasping his name.

He left me to die in that metal box.

Later, when I confronted him, he called me "unstable" and "jealous." He claimed I was a burden, a placeholder he married just to pass the time until Izzy was ready for him.

He even shoved me into a freezing lake to protect her from a confrontation she started.

He thought I would always be there, the pathetic wife waiting in the shadows. He thought his love was a prize I would endure any torture to keep.

He was wrong.

I signed the divorce papers, threw my ring into the ocean, and vanished without a trace.

Three years later, I returned to New York as a celebrated artist, with a man who treated me like a masterpiece, not a prop.

Marcus, now ruined by Izzy’s lies and stripped of his fortune, found me. He knelt in the rain on the city street, weeping, begging for one more chance to fix us.

I looked down at the husband who had let me drown.

"There is no 'us', Marcus," I said calmly.

Then I turned my back on him and walked into my future.