Chapter 3

Ava Miller POV

Pain, I realized, brings a terrible kind of clarity.

For seven years, I had existed in a haze of rose petals and carefully curated poetry.

I had mistaken Ethan's possessiveness for passion. I had interpreted his brooding silence as depth.

The eviction notice sitting on the bedside table was a bucket of ice water to the face.

"Ava?" Maya's hand hovered over my uninjured one, her touch gentle. "We can fight this. I know a lawyer. We can sue for the medical bills, for the distress..."

"No," I said. My voice was raspy, like sandpaper over stone, but it was steady.

I stared up at the sterile white ceiling. In my mind, I traced the crest stamped into the wax seal of the notice. The lion holding the rose.

The lion hadn't protected the rose. It had devoured it.

"If I sue, I stay trapped in his orbit," I said. "I remain his victim. His property."

"So what? You just let him get away with it?" Maya asked, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"No." I turned my head to face her, the movement stiff. "I let him believe he's won. Ethan is arrogant. He thinks I'm fragile. He expects me to beg."

I tried to push myself up. The room tilted dangerously, but I gritted my teeth until the spinning slowed to a stop.

"Tell me about the rules, Maya. The ones you always whisper about. The Omertà."

Maya pulled a chair closer, the metal legs scraping against the linoleum. She looked at me differently now. The pity was evaporating, replaced by a flicker of genuine respect.

"Omertà isn't just silence," she explained, her voice low. "It's about order. A Don protects his own. He keeps his chaos behind closed doors. He doesn't air dirty laundry to humiliate his blood or his sworn partners."

"And Ethan?"

"He's being messy," Maya said, shaking her head. "Faking amnesia to parade around with an influencer? It's sloppy. It lacks discipline. The old guard, the men who sat at the table with his father... they won't respect this. If they find out he's lying, he looks weak. And in this world, if he looks weak, he loses the territory."

A plan began to coalesce in the hazy corners of my mind. It wasn't about revenge. Not yet. It was about survival.

"I need to disappear," I said. "Not just move apartments. I need to vanish completely."

"Where?"

"Portland," I said. It was the first place that surfaced in my memory. Rain. Grey skies. Coffee. A world away from the neon glare of New York.

"I still have that design degree I never used. I can start over."

"You need money," Maya pointed out pragmatically. "He cut your cards an hour ago."

"I have something," I said, a cold resolve settling in my chest. "In the apartment. Hidden."

*

I discharged myself the next morning, signing the papers against medical advice.

Maya helped me into her car. Every pothole sent a jolt of liquid fire shooting up my arm, but I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron, refusing to make a sound.

When we reached the apartment, it felt like walking into a mausoleum.

The air was stale. My clothes still hung in the closet, ghostly silhouettes of the woman I used to be. The wedding invitations sat on the desk, the red wax hardened like dried blood.

I walked straight to the bookshelf.

"What are you looking for?" Maya asked, frantically grabbing suitcases and sweeping my clothes into them.

"Leverage," I muttered.

I bypassed the jewelry box and reached for a vintage copy of *The Great Gatsby*. It was hollowed out.

Inside, there was no cash, no diamonds. Just a small, leather-bound notebook.

It was Ethan's journal from college. Before the title of "Don" was heavy on his shoulders. Before the mask was fused to his skin.

I hadn't read it in years. I had kept it because I thought it was romantic-a piece of his soul that only I held.

Now, I gripped it like a weapon.

I didn't open it. Not yet. I just shoved it deep into my bag.

"We need to go," Maya urged, struggling to zip a suitcase. "Sterling said forty-eight hours, but he sent a cleaning crew early. They're already in the lobby."

I took one last look at the apartment. The gilded cage.

"Let's go," I said.

We were reaching for the door handle when a heavy fist pounded on the wood.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

The sound vibrated through the floorboards.

"Ava!" A deep voice boomed. "Open up."

It was Mark. Ethan's head of security. The man who used to drive me to the spa, who used to smile and call me "Miss Ava."

Now, his voice carried the weight of a threat.

"He knows," I whispered to Maya, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He knows I'm not crying in a hospital bed."

I gripped the strap of my bag tighter. The hard edge of the diary pressed against my side.

"Open the door, Ava!" Mark shouted.

"Mr. Reed wants his ring back."