AVA'S POV
The scent of scorched wood clung to the air like a bitter perfume.
I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until the door to Ethan's office creaked open and he stepped out, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, eyes shadowed with something too dark to name.
He didn't see me at first.
I watched him from the top of the staircase. From the safety of distance. My fingers tightened around the banister.
This mansion had so many corridors, so many corners, and yet
I always found myself circling back to this one man who could unravel me with a single glance.
"Ethan," I called quietly.
His head turned. A flicker of surprise, then retreat. His walls slammed up like a fortress. "Ava."
We hadn't spoken since the disaster in the drawing room, the
argument, the accusations, the barely veiled pain.
"I heard you canceled the Paris trip."
"I wasn't in the mood to be surrounded by people pretending
to care."
"Isn't that what we do every day?"
He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "I'm tired of the act."
"So take off the mask."
His laugh was bitter. "And show you what? The real me? The one no one ever wanted to see?"
"I'm not no one."
His eyes locked with mine, and something shifted between us.
A gust of wind through brittle leaves. A match striking too close to skin.
He reached for the glass on the side table and took a slow sip. "My father wants us to attend the Blackwell Gala together. Make a
statement."
I swallowed. "What kind of statement?"
"That despite the rumors, we're still united. Still untouchable."
"And are we?"
His silence answered for him.
I descended the stairs. "Do you ever wish it was real? That we were real?"
He flinched.
"No," he said, voice low. "Because if it were, I wouldn't know how to love you without breaking you."
And then he walked past me.
Out the door.
Out of reach.
And all I could do was stand there, hands trembling, wondering why the lies suddenly hurt more than the truth ever did.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Ethan's words echoed in my mind like thunder trapped in a cathedral.
"Because if it were, I wouldn't know how to love you without breaking you."
I sat on the edge of my bed, my fingers curling around the silk hem of my robe, heart thudding in the stillness.
There was no sound beyond the whisper of wind against the windows, no warmth beyond the ache in my chest.
What did it mean, to be married to someone whose walls were higher than the ceilings of this mansion?.
To live with a man who touched me like a stranger and looked at me like a puzzle he never asked for?
I stood and walked barefoot into the hallway. Every portrait I passed seemed to judge me.
Eyes frozen in time, bearing witness to the unspoken tension
in this house of glass and secrets.
The kitchen lights were off. I didn't need them. I moved by memory, poured a glass of water, and stood in the dark like a ghost haunting
her own life.
Then came the voice.
"You never sleep at night."
I turned.
Diane.
She leaned against the archway, arms folded, wearing one of her impossibly crisp nightgowns.
"Neither do you," I said.
"I've been married longer than you. I learned not to expect comfort after 10 p.m."
I tried to smile. Failed.
She walked toward me, her heels clicking softly against the marble. "He's not easy, Ava. But then again, neither are you."
I flinched.
"He told me once," she continued, "that he doesn't know how to love someone without holding back. He was taught to guard himself like gold.
Do you know what that does to a boy?"
I looked away. "I didn't ask for this. Not the money. Not the press. Not the cold war we call marriage."
"No," Diane said gently. "But you said yes to it."
And there it was, the truth no one ever said aloud.
I finished my water. "Is there a way to make this work?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, finally, "Only if you're brave enough to stop pretending you're not already falling for him."
My breath caught.
"I'm not."
"You keep saying that."
She turned and left, her words lingering long after her footsteps faded.
The next morning, I woke early. The bed beside mine was still cold. Ethan hadn't returned.
I dressed in a tailored navy blouse and charcoal trousers, my hair swept back in a low ponytail. Professional. Controlled. Untouchable.
But the moment I stepped into the breakfast room, I realized today wouldn't be easy.
Ethan was there.
And so was his father.
Gregory Kingsley.
The lion of the empire. The man whose word was law. His silver hair gleamed under the chandelier, his expression carved from granite.
"Ava," he said, not unkindly. "Join us."
I did, slowly, as Ethan sipped black coffee like it was a weapon.
"We were discussing the Blackwell Gala," Gregory continued. "It's imperative that the two of you attend.
There have been whispers."
"Whispers?" I asked.
"That your marriage isn't... substantial."
"It isn't," Ethan said. "It's a contract."
"Contracts are only as powerful as the people who believe in them," Gregory replied. "Perception, Ethan. That's what built this family."
My hand shook slightly as I lifted my fork. "We'll be there."
Gregory's eyes flicked to mine. "Good. Because if you're going to lie to the world, lie well."
And with that, he stood and left, leaving behind tension thick enough to slice.
Ethan looked at me. "Why did you say yes?".
"Because I'm tired of waiting for you to fight for something."
His jaw clenched. "I don't fight battles I can't win."
"Then maybe you've already lost."
We stared at each other, the table between us too wide, the air too cold.
And I wondered, what would it take to make him see me?.
Really see me