The Debt Collector's Wife

From the back cover

My life was a carefully constructed story, and I was its star.

Elara Caldwell, the graceful "American Princess" adored by the public.

An investigative journalist, married to rising Congressman Julian, our life was a perfect Georgetown fairytale.

Seven months pregnant, I believed I had it all.

Then, one quiet night, a live stream from Julian's "charity poker game" changed everything.

He wasn't betting money with senators and lobbyists.

He was betting "the exclusive rights to a dossier. Kompromat. On my wife."

My name, my life, was being auctioned off.

He planned to leak fabricated dirt, declare me mentally unstable, seize my assets, and gain full custody of our unborn son.

His chilling motive: "This is for Scarlett. It's time to collect the debt."

Julian returned home, his face a perfect mask of affection, while taunting texts and media alerts painted me as unraveling.

He forced sedatives on me, trapping me in our "perfect" home.

The immense stress became a physical weight, and I collapsed in the nursery.

I woke up in a sterile hospital room, my hand flying to a now-flat stomach.

Our baby was gone.

Through the slightly ajar door, I heard Julian' s furious voice, not grieving, but raging about political timing, eager to spin my tragedy for his gain.

His "love" was a practiced act, his ambition a poison.

I was not his wife; I was a placeholder.

My unborn son, a final payment in a twisted game I never knew I was playing.

The tears stopped.

An icy resolve settled within me, replacing the hollow emptiness.

I looked at the monster masquerading as my loving husband.

And I began to plan.