Ava couldn't stop thinking about the name—Michael Blackthorne. It echoed in her mind like a warning bell, louder than the media storm, more terrifying than Lena's threats.
She sat across from Jace in the study, both of them pouring over her mother's letters.
"He's alive," Jace said for the third time that hour. "I'd bet everything on it."
Ava traced her fingers over her mother's handwriting. "And he's the one pulling strings now?"
"Possibly. Lena isn't smart enough to orchestrate all this alone. She's too emotional. Someone's backing her—and now we know who might be at the top."
Ava looked up. "What exactly did my father do to him?"
Jace hesitated. "He betrayed him. Financially, publicly, and personally. Blackthorne went to prison for fraud—fraud your father helped orchestrate. When your father testified against him, he lost everything. His family, his name, his legacy."
Ava's stomach twisted. "So now he wants revenge."
"And he's using you to get it."
---
Meanwhile, Lena stood on a dark balcony, speaking into a burner phone.
"She's digging," she whispered. "Too deep."
A gruff male voice replied, "Let her. It'll make her crash harder when she hits the truth."
---
The next morning, Jace received an invitation—handwritten, no return address.
> "A gala. Midnight. The old Rothschild estate. Come alone. Bring the girl."
He crumpled it. "It's a trap."
Ava took it from his hand and smoothed it out. "Which is exactly why we're going."
"You want to walk into danger?"
"I want to walk into answers."
---
That night, Ava wore black silk. A deep neckline, a thigh-high slit, and resolve carved into every curve of her body. Jace looked like a villain in a fairytale—dark, dangerous, desirable.
The Rothschild estate was grand and eerie. Old chandeliers swayed above candlelit tables, and masked faces whispered in corners.
They were led through winding halls into a back chamber—empty, save for a chair and a man with salt-and-pepper hair, leaning casually like he owned the world.
Michael Blackthorne.
"So this is the girl," he said, standing. "You've got her mother's fire. And your father's bad luck."
Ava didn't flinch. "Why now?"
He chuckled. "Because I was patient. Because your marriage to Jace made you powerful. And because power begs to be destroyed."
Jace stepped forward. "What do you want?"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "I want the world to remember who I am. And I want her to suffer like I did."
Ava's hands clenched. "Then you'll be disappointed."
"Will I?" he replied, sliding a file across the table. "Your mother didn't die, Ava. She disappeared… because of you."
Ava froze.
"What are you talking about?"
Michael smiled coldly. "Ask your husband. He knows more than he told you."
---
The drive home was silent.
Ava stared at Jace.
"Tell me he's lying."
Jace gripped the wheel tighter. "It's complicated."
Ava's voice broke. "Tell. Me."
He pulled over.
"She found out about Blackthorne and tried to protect you. She warned me—made me swear I'd never let him near you. She disappeared to keep you safe. And I let you believe she was dead."
Tears slid silently down Ava's cheeks.
"You said no more secrets."
"I wanted to protect you."
"That's not your choice."
---
She stormed into the mansion, heart racing.
Back in her suite, she ripped open the box of letters. One stood out—unopened, sealed with wax.
She broke it.
> "If he ever finds you, run. If Jace lies, leave. If you feel like everything is falling apart, it's because something greater is waiting to be rebuilt."
Her mother's final letter.
Ava folded it with shaking hands.
She turned off the lights, sat in the dark, and whispered into the silence, "I don't know who to trust."
The door creaked open.
Jace.
He walked in and didn't say a word.
He just held her.
And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.
But outside the mansion, another figure stood by the gates.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.