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His Obsession, My Hell

Dorine Koestler

5.0

Romance

25 Chapters

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My marriage to David Miller was a picture of perfection, a dream life built on his charm and our shared happiness. Then came the call: my mother in an accident, and David, my husband, utterly unreachable. Hours bled into sterile dread in the hospital waiting room, a dread far deeper than my mother' s condition. An unknown text arrived, a single photo: David, arm around another woman, intimate, familiar. It was my aunt, Sophia Hayes, my mother' s estranged sister, her smile painfully like mine. My world, once perfect, splintered into a million icy shards under the humming hospital lights. He returned late, weaving slick lies about dead phones and urgent meetings, as if I were a child to be placated. But as he signed the papers I put before him, oblivious, a chilling sense of irony settled heavy in my gut. The man I thought I knew, the husband who murmured of naming our child "Sophia," was a stranger. I found his study, not an office, but a shrine to her, filled with desperate letters and a diary detailing his monstrous plan: I was just a "perfect-looking replacement" to bear "his Sophia." The love, the marriage, the baby-all a grotesque fabrication, designed to resurrect his lost obsession. The pain threatened to split me, but beneath it, a cold, hard resolve began to form, sharper than any grief. He thought he' d signed investment papers; he' d signed his divorce, and my consent to end the lie he' d so carefully constructed within me. I walked out that night, leaving his diary open, his delusion exposed, ready to erase every trace of his monstrous fantasy.

His Obsession, My Hell Introduction

My marriage to David Miller was a picture of perfection, a dream life built on his charm and our shared happiness.

Then came the call: my mother in an accident, and David, my husband, utterly unreachable.

Hours bled into sterile dread in the hospital waiting room, a dread far deeper than my mother' s condition.

An unknown text arrived, a single photo: David, arm around another woman, intimate, familiar.

It was my aunt, Sophia Hayes, my mother' s estranged sister, her smile painfully like mine.

My world, once perfect, splintered into a million icy shards under the humming hospital lights.

He returned late, weaving slick lies about dead phones and urgent meetings, as if I were a child to be placated.

But as he signed the papers I put before him, oblivious, a chilling sense of irony settled heavy in my gut.

The man I thought I knew, the husband who murmured of naming our child "Sophia," was a stranger.

I found his study, not an office, but a shrine to her, filled with desperate letters and a diary detailing his monstrous plan: I was just a "perfect-looking replacement" to bear "his Sophia."

The love, the marriage, the baby-all a grotesque fabrication, designed to resurrect his lost obsession.

The pain threatened to split me, but beneath it, a cold, hard resolve began to form, sharper than any grief.

He thought he' d signed investment papers; he' d signed his divorce, and my consent to end the lie he' d so carefully constructed within me.

I walked out that night, leaving his diary open, his delusion exposed, ready to erase every trace of his monstrous fantasy.