Chapter 3

AVA DODSON POV:

My steps were heavy, each one an act of defiance against the pain in my ankle and the heavier ache in my soul. I clutched the legal documents, the divorce papers, like a shield. My destination was Killian' s study, his inner sanctum, a place I had always treated with a deference born of fear and a desperate hope for acceptance. Now, it was just another room.

As I neared the closed door, a low murmur of voices, then a soft giggle, drifted out. Isabel. My stomach churned. They were in there, still wrapped in their oblivious bubble of misplaced affection. A moment of hesitation. A tiny, foolish part of me wanted to turn back, to avoid this final confrontation. But the memory of Killian' s disgust, his cruel words, Isabel' s triumphant smirk, solidified my resolve. No. This ended now.

I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles could connect, the door swung open. Killian stood there, his face tight, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He hadn' t bothered to clean up from the night before, a rare lapse in his usual meticulousness. His eyes, dark and stormy, swept over me, lingering on the slight tremor in my injured leg. His gaze held no concern, only annoyance.

"What do you want, Ava?" he demanded, his voice clipped. He didn' t even try to hide his impatience. "Were you eavesdropping?"

"No," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. I held out the papers. "I came to give you these."

He glanced at the stack of documents, then back at my face, a sneer twisting his lips. "I' m busy. Whatever it is, it can wait." He brushed past me, his shoulder intentionally bumping mine, a clear signal of dismissal.

"It can' t wait, Killian," I insisted, turning to face his retreating back. "It' s important."

He didn' t even pause. His footsteps receded down the hallway, leaving me standing alone, holding the heavy weight of our failed marriage in my hands.

Then, Isabel emerged from the study, her eyes sparkling with malicious glee. She was wearing one of Killian' s crisp white shirts, the sleeves rolled up, her bare legs peeking out from beneath the hem. She looked like she owned the place, and in that moment, she probably felt she did.

"Oh, what' s this?" she purred, plucking the papers from my numb fingers. She scanned the top page, her eyes widening theatrically. "Divorce papers? Oh, Ava, you poor thing. How dramatic. Did you really think Killian would care?" She laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "He' s already moved on. You' re just... dead weight."

My hands clenched into fists. "Those are private documents, Isabel. You have no right to touch them."

She ignored me, pulling a pen from the desk. With a flourish, she signed her name, Isabella Griffin, right across the blank signature line meant for Killian. "There," she declared, holding the papers up. "Consider it done. I' m doing you a favor, really. Killian was only going to keep you around for appearances. Now that I' m here, he doesn' t need you anymore."

Rage, cold and pure, surged through me. "You think this is a game?"

She smirked, tossing her head. "Oh, it' s a very serious game, darling. And I' m winning. You see this house? This life? It' s all mine now. Killian loves me. He' d do anything for me. What have you ever gotten from him? Scraps? Cold shoulders?" She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You were just the placeholder, Ava. The convenient wife. I' m the real deal."

"You' re a manipulative fraud," I spat, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "You tricked him."

She laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "And what did you do, Ava? Mope around? Play the victim? You couldn' t even hold onto your own husband. You' re the real third wheel here, crashing our love story."

Her words hit a nerve. I wanted to lash out, to rip her carefully constructed facade to shreds. But before I could, Isabel swayed dramatically, her eyes rolling back. "Oh! I feel faint!" she cried, clutching her chest.

My instincts, still stubbornly rooted in compassion despite everything, reacted before my brain. I reached out to steady her. But it was a trap. Her foot snagged mine, and she went down, pulling me with her. We tumbled down the short flight of stairs leading from the study to the main hallway, a tangle of limbs and rustling fabric. The impact sent a searing pain through my already injured ankle.

Isabel, with a theatrical gasp, landed heavily on my leg, her weight grinding against the twisted joint. A sharp cry escaped my lips.

Just then, Killian burst back into the hallway, alerted by the commotion. His eyes immediately fixed on Isabel, who was now clutching her head, letting out soft moans. He didn' t even glance at me, crumpled beneath her, my face pale with agony.

"Isabel! My love! Are you alright?" he cried, his voice laced with terror. He gently lifted her into his arms, cradling her as if she were made of glass. He shot a furious glare at me, still lying on the floor. "Ava, what did you do to her? You jealous fool!"

He rushed past me, Isabel tucked safely in his arms, her head nestled against his shoulder. He didn't spare me a second look, a faint, almost imperceptible moan escaping my lips. The house staff, alerted by the noise, peered out from various rooms, their faces a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled contempt. No one moved to help me. I was just the discarded wife, the problem to be ignored.

A fresh wave of pain washed over me, cold sweat beading on my forehead. My ankle throbbed, a relentless hammer against bone. My head spun.

Moments later, Killian reappeared at the study door, his face still etched with concern, but not for me. He bent down, carefully picking up a delicate scarf Isabel had dropped. He held it with an almost reverent touch, folding it precisely.

Isabel' s voice, now a little stronger, drifted from the top of the stairs. "Killian, my love, are you coming? My head still hurts, and I need you."

"Coming, my angel," he called back, his tone instantly soft and tender. He glanced at me, still on the floor, his eyes devoid of emotion. "Don' t even think about touching this. It' s Isabel' s." He held up the scarf, a symbol of his misplaced devotion, then turned and ascended the stairs, his attention solely on the woman who awaited him.

Lying there, a broken woman on a cold floor, I understood. I was less than the scarf, less than a discarded item. I was nothing. A hollow ache, colder than any winter, settled in my chest. My hands reached for my phone, its screen cracked from the fall. With shaking fingers, I dialed the only number I knew would answer, the only person who had ever truly cared. My grandmother' s lawyer.