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The pages of Greg’s journals, instead of revealing a clandestine life, began to tell a profoundly different, equally unsettling story. There was no mention of another family, no hushed confessions of a secret love, no evidence of the elaborate deception Susan had so cruelly painted. Instead, as I delved deeper into his careful entries, a pattern emerged: detailed accounts of a contentious professional conflict with Susan, increasingly tense business disputes that had escalated over time, ultimately costing her company stability and significant financial setbacks. The more I read, the clearer it became, a horrifying, dawning realization blooming in the pit of my stomach. The note, far from being a heartbroken confession of forbidden love, began to twist into something far more sinister. It was not a message from a lover, but an act of chilling, calculated vengeance, meticulously designed to deepen my grief and shatter my memories of Greg into irreparable fragments. The revelation shifted from personal betrayal to a malicious, targeted attack. Seeking a final, undeniable confirmation, I reached out to Greg’s closest friend, who, with a look of profound sorrow, confirmed my horrifying suspicion: Susan’s claims were utterly untrue. Her children were her own, and her cruel, venomous words at the funeral had been born of bitterness, not truth, leaving me with a new kind of anguish, one laced with outrage.
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