Ava hadn't been back to the house in years.
It sat on the edge of Long Island, tucked behind a winding gravel road and overgrown trees that had always reminded her of something magical. Her mother used to call it "the escape house," the only place Jonathan Sinclair ever went without a schedule.
After everything that happened—the collapse, the lies, the silence—Ava had told herself she'd never return.
But she came anyway.
No one was there now. The property hadn't been listed or sold. Just left untouched, as if waiting for someone to remember it mattered.
Ava pushed the rusted gate open slowly, her heels crunching over gravel, her heart unusually still.
She needed quiet.
Not silence. Silence reminded her of death.
She needed the kind of quiet that let thoughts breathe.
The house was exactly as she remembered. Pale blue siding, white porch swing, a wooden deck that creaked under her step. The key was still where her father used to hide it—under a fake rock by the steps.
Inside, the air smelled like wood and dust and memory.
She wandered through slowly, trailing her fingers over the back of the old couch, the photo frames still on the mantle, the glass bowl on the table still holding dried lavender her mother had once loved.
No one had touched anything.
The dining chairs hadn't moved.
The kettle still sat on the stove like someone might use it again.
Her throat tightened, but she didn't cry.
She sat on the couch and let the stillness wrap around her like a heavy coat.
Here, there were no companies.
No revenge.
No Damien.
Just her and the girl she used to be.
By mid-afternoon, she had started a fire. Not because it was cold—but because the sound of it grounded her. She hadn't brought much—just a small bag, her journal, and her phone, which she'd silenced the moment she arrived.
She didn't want noise.
She wanted clarity.
But clarity was slippery when your heart was torn in three directions.
She thought of Damien. The quiet in his voice when he said, "I'm protecting the version of us that might survive this." She hadn't replied to his last message. Not because she didn't want to. But because some part of her was afraid that wanting him meant rewriting too much of her own story.
And then Julian.
The look in his eyes when he said he loved her.
The pain in his voice when she walked away.
She hated hurting him.
But she couldn't pretend anymore.
Not when so much had shifted.
The sun was beginning to sink when she heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel.
She stood.
Walked to the window.
A black SUV.
The same one she'd seen outside her building two nights ago.
The door opened, and Julian stepped out.
No suit.
Just dark jeans, a gray sweater, and tired eyes.
She didn't move.
Didn't open the door.
She just waited.
He knocked once.
She opened it.
And for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he said, "I didn't come to fight."
She stepped aside.
Let him in.
He looked around slowly, his eyes landing on the fireplace, the shelf, the pictures.
"I haven't been here since before your mother got sick," he said.
Ava nodded. "I come here to remember who I was before everything went wrong."
Julian walked to the edge of the mantle, studying a photo of her as a teenager—her mother beside her, smiling, alive.
"You were happy here," he said.
"I was someone else."
He looked at her. "No. You were you—just less guarded."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she sat back down on the couch.
He joined her, not too close.
Just near enough to let her know he wasn't going to run again.
She watched the flames for a while before speaking.
"I don't know what to do with how I feel."
He didn't push.
Didn't ask.
Just waited.
She went on. "Everything I believed for years is shifting. I keep wondering if I was just blind, or if I needed to be."
"You weren't blind," he said softly. "You were hurt. And I didn't help you heal."
"You did," she said. "In your way. But part of you held back."
He didn't argue.
"I let my feelings get in the way of the truth," he admitted. "I thought if you knew everything, I'd lose you."
"And maybe you did," she whispered. "But not in the way you think."
He turned to her. "Then tell me how."
She took a breath.
"When I looked at you, I used to see home. Now I see someone who loved me but didn't trust me with the truth."
He flinched. Just a little.
Then nodded. "I deserved that."
She leaned back, arms crossed.
"But I'm not angry anymore," she added. "I just need space to figure out what version of myself still believes in people."
He looked down at his hands. "I don't expect anything from you, Ava."
She glanced over.
"Then why did you come?"
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about the last thing you said to me."
"What was that?"
"That you don't know how to feel about me anymore."
She looked him in the eyes.
"And now?"
Julian shook his head.
"I still don't know."
A soft breath left her lips.
Then, slowly, she rested her head against the back of the couch—not leaning on him, but closer than before.
Not because everything was fixed.
But because not everything needed to be said tonight.
Some things needed silence.
Some things needed time.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees.
Inside, the fire cracked softly in the hearth.
And for the first time in a long time, Ava felt like she could breathe.