The Wife He Sold

From the back cover

My fiancé, Mark, whispered promises of forever, of a family, as we lay in bed watching the sunrise.

He said he loved me, and I believed him with every fiber of my being.

I built my world around him, his happiness my only goal.

Then, I found his journal.

Page after page, he wrote about Chloe, his childhood sweetheart, with a desperate, passionate love he never showed me.

It was dated a week after he proposed to me.

I wasn't his love; I was a placeholder, someone convenient to fund his lifestyle and soothe his ego while he waited for his true love to be available.

The gentleness was a tool, his promises a means to an end.

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

Then Chloe' s husband died, and her family went bankrupt.

Mark brought her to our home, demanding she stay.

When I finally defied him, telling him she couldn't stay, he went into a rage.

The next day, two rough men arrived.

I thought they were there to evict me, but they grabbed me, dragging me from my home.

"A lesson in obedience, Sarah," Mark had said, adjusting my collar as they held me.

"You're tougher. Three days. I'll get the money and come for you. Just be a good girl."

But he never came.

I was thrown into a dark, reeking basement – an underground fight club.

There, I learned the true meaning of his betrayal.

He didn't just abandon me; he sold me, leaving me for dead, all to punish me for standing in his way.

I barely escaped, a ghost of my former self.

When I stumbled back home, I found him celebrating, bragging about how I had been "broken in."

Sarah Miller died that night.

Three years later, I faced him across a crowded ballroom, his gaze freezing on mine.

He rushed towards me, murmuring, "Sarah? Is that you? Do you know I've been searching for you for three years!"

But the broken girl was gone.

I leaned into the warm, solid figure beside me, a cool smile on my face.

"Mr. Stevens," I said, "we're not close. Please don't let my husband get the wrong idea."