Chapter 10

KILLIAN RUTLEDGE POV:

The drive home was a blur. My head throbbed, not from a hangover, but from the relentless pressure of the crisis at work and the suffocating realization of my own colossal mistakes. The empire I had so meticulously built was teetering on the brink, and it was my own blind devotion that had pushed it over the edge.

My mind, usually so sharp and analytical, was a chaotic mess. I saw Isabel' s tear-streaked face, her desperate pleas, and felt nothing but a profound emptiness. Then, unbidden, Ava' s face floated into my thoughts. Her quiet strength, her dignity in the face of my cruelty, her meticulous care for everything I dismissed. A painful echo. Ava. Ava used to care for me just like that.

I had been so completely, utterly wrong about everything.

Weeks later, the company was still reeling, but the legal team had managed to stabilize the bleeding. I attended a high-profile industry gala, a necessary show of strength, with Isabel reluctantly by my side. I had insisted she clean up her act, dress appropriately, and for once, refrain from any public antics. She had even tried to mimic Ava's understated elegance, wearing a simple black gown, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun. It was a poor imitation, lacking Ava's inherent grace, but I found myself almost... grateful for the effort. Perhaps, I thought, she was finally learning.

My gaze drifted across the crowded ballroom, a sea of glittering faces and polite smiles. And then I saw her.

Ava.

She stood by a display of modern art, her head tilted, a soft smile gracing her lips. She was wearing a deep emerald green gown that shimmered with every subtle movement, perfectly complementing her fair skin and dark hair. Her hair, which I remembered as always immaculately styled, now fell in soft waves around her shoulders, framing a face that was no longer etched with sorrow, but radiant with a quiet confidence. Her eyes, once shadowed with pain, now sparkled with an inner light I had never witnessed. She moved with an effortless elegance, a newfound poise that commanded attention without demanding it.

My breath caught in my throat. She wasn' t the meek, accommodating wife I remembered. She was... magnificent. A queen. My Ava, but transformed, reborn. She was everything I had unknowingly suppressed, everything I had carelessly discarded.

A wave of regret, so sharp it was physical, tore through me. I remembered her quiet efforts, her subtle beauty, her unwavering loyalty. I remembered how I had crushed her spirit, ridiculed her passions, and ultimately, thrown her out. My world tilted. The air left my lungs.

Isabel, noticing my rigid posture, tugged on my arm. Her eyes followed my gaze. Her face hardened, a familiar sneer twisting her features. "What are you looking at, Killian? Her again? Honestly, that dress is so passé." She tugged harder. "Let' s go home. I need to change. This dress isn' t good enough. You need to buy me something custom, something spectacular, right now."

Her whining, her endless demands, snapped something inside me. The soft imitation of Ava, the fleeting hope that she had changed, shattered. All I saw was the grasping, manipulative woman who had systematically destroyed my life and my company. Her voice, once a siren song, was now a grating noise.

"Enough, Isabel!" I hissed, my voice low and venomous, shocking even myself. "We are here for a business function. And you will behave, or you will leave. Alone."

She stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. "Killian! How can you talk to me like that? After I saved your life!"

The words, once a weapon, now rang hollow and pathetic. "That lie is over, Isabel," I said, my voice cold. I signaled to two of my security guards. "Take Ms. Griffin home. And ensure she does not return."

Isabel' s face contorted in a mask of fury and fear. "You can' t do this! You owe me! I saved you!" She struggled, but the guards were unyielding. As she was dragged away, her protests echoing through the hall, I didn' t spare her another glance. My eyes were already fixed on Ava.

She was laughing now, a genuine, joyful sound, her head thrown back. She wasn' t alone. A man, tall and handsome, with kind eyes and an easy smile, stood beside her. He was leaning in, his hand gently touching her arm, his gaze fixed on her with a warmth and admiration that made my blood run cold. Conner Martinez. The architect. I knew him from the guest list.

They were talking animatedly, about art, I realized, as fragments of their conversation drifted towards me. Ava, who I had always believed was too practical for such things, too grounded, was speaking passionately about a sculptor' s use of light and shadow, her eyes alight with a fervor I had never seen. I had suppressed her artistic side, dismissed it as a messy distraction. Conner was listening, truly listening, his head nodding in agreement, his smile genuine.

A jealous ache twisted in my gut. A bitter, burning envy for the connection they shared, for the laughter she so freely gave him. He saw her, truly saw her, in a way I never had.

Then, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. A small, intimate gesture. Ava leaned into his touch, her smile softening, her eyes meeting his with an unspoken understanding.

Something primal, something violent, snapped inside me. She was mine. She had always been mine. He had no right to touch her, to look at her like that. My vision swam. All the control, all the carefully constructed composure I had maintained for years, disintegrated.

I moved, a blur of motion through the crowded room. I shoved people aside, my eyes fixed on Conner. He was encroaching on my territory, my possession.

"GET AWAY FROM HER!" I roared, tackling him, sending him sprawling to the floor. The music stopped. A stunned silence fell over the ballroom.

Conner, surprisingly composed, picked himself up, brushing off his suit. He looked at me, then at Ava, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He gave Ava a reassuring nod, a silent promise, then turned and walked away, his dignity intact.

I stood there, panting, my chest heaving, facing Ava. Her expression was unreadable, a cool mask of detachment.

"Hello, Ava," I said, my voice hoarse, a desperate attempt to sound casual, though my teeth were still clenched.

She looked at me, her eyes devoid of warmth, devoid of any emotion I could possibly decipher. "Mr. Rutledge," she replied, her voice calm, distant, utterly devoid of recognition of our shared past. "To what do I owe this... pleasure?"

The formal address, the polite distance, was a colder, sharper knife than any accusation. It cut deeper than any insult. It was the sound of a door slamming shut, forever.