Chapter 5

AVA DODSON POV:

The hospital room was quiet, sterile, and utterly empty save for me. I woke to the soft hum of medical equipment, the distant chatter of nurses. No familiar face hovered anxiously over me, no hand reached out to check my forehead. Just silence, and the dull throb of my bandaged ankle and bruised forehead.

A nurse bustled in, checking my vitals. "Mr. Rutledge' s office called," she announced, her voice brisk. "They want to know when he can pick you up."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Killian. Picking me up. As if I were a package, an inconvenience to be swiftly removed. "Tell them I' ll arrange my own transport," I said, my voice firm. "And please, don' t contact them again."

The nurse looked surprised, but nodded.

I spent the next few days in a haze of pain and profound introspection. The hospital became my sanctuary, a neutral zone where Killian' s rules, Isabel' s malice, and my own crushing despair couldn't reach me. I dismissed the private nurse Killian' s office had sent, a stern woman who had clearly been instructed to report my every move. I wanted to be alone. I needed to be alone.

In the quiet solitude, I unwound the tangled threads of my life. Six years. Six years of trying, of hoping, of sacrificing myself piece by piece to a man who saw me as nothing more than a convenient accessory. I had loved him, fiercely and foolishly, since I was a teenager, a silent crush that had blossomed into a desperate devotion after our arranged marriage. He was brilliant, powerful, unattainable, and I had foolishly believed that my unwavering loyalty could eventually win his heart.

I' d rationalized his coldness, his mysophobia, his rigid rules. I told myself he was incapable of loving anyone, that his heart was simply built differently. It was easier to believe that than to accept the chilling truth: he could love. He could lavish affection, attention, and tenderness. He just didn' t do it for me. He did it for Isabel. That realization, stark and uncompromising, stripped away the last vestiges of my self-deception. My love hadn't been consumed by his rules; it had been starved by his indifference and then systematically murdered by his cruelty.

When the doctors cleared me for discharge, I walked out of that hospital alone, leaning heavily on crutches, but with a lightness in my heart I hadn' t felt in years. I went to the nearest legal office, my resolve as solid as the ground beneath my feet. The divorce papers, signed by me, were now officially filed.

I returned to the mansion, not as a wife, but as a temporary resident. The house felt cavernous, echoing with the ghosts of a life I had never truly lived. I limped through the opulent rooms, my crutches clanking, a stark contrast to the luxurious silence.

My first stop was my walk-in closet. Years of Killian' s meticulous gifts-expensive jewelry, designer clothes, everything chosen to fit his austere taste-were systematically pulled out. Each item, once a symbol of his wealth, now felt like a chain. I took them all, every single one, and dumped them into enormous trash bags. They were not mine. They never truly were.

Then, I hobbled to the hidden wall safe behind a large painting. Inside, nestled amongst important documents, was a small, velvet box. I opened it. A delicate silver locket, engraved with my grandmother' s initials, gleamed softly. It was an heirloom, passed down through generations of Dodson women, a symbol of enduring love. I remembered the day Killian had seen it.

"What is that?" he' d asked, his brow furrowing in distaste. "It looks... old. Unsanitary. You shouldn' t wear such things, Ava. They collect germs."

I had, foolishly, taken it off. Tucked it away, out of his sight, hoping to please him. To be "clean" enough.

Now, I took it out, its cool metal a comfort against my fingertips. I fastened the chain around my neck, the locket settling against my skin, a silent promise to myself. This was mine. My heritage. My self. I would never take it off again.

As I struggled with my crutches towards the kitchen, a familiar commotion erupted from the grand entrance. Killian and Isabel, back from their hospital visit, were sweeping in. Isabel was laughing, a bright, carefree sound, her arm linked through Killian' s. She was perfectly fine, of course. Not a scratch.

"Oh, Killian, my love, I' m famished!" she trilled, her voice echoing through the marble foyer. "What' s for dinner?"

"Anything you want, my angel," Killian replied, his voice a soft caress. "I' ve already arranged for your favorite chef to prepare a feast. And a special tea, just for you." He turned to a hovering butler. "Ensure Ms. Griffin' s every need is met. She' s had a trying day."

My heart clenched, a spasm of pain. A chef. A special tea. For her "trying day."

I remembered the time I had come down with a terrible fever, my body wracked with chills. I had politely asked Killian' s chef for some simple soup. Killian had found out and reprimanded me sharply. "Ava, you know illness is contagious. You should isolate yourself. Don' t expose the staff, and certainly don' t expect special treatment." He had sent me a pre-packaged, bland meal to my room, delivered by a masked servant wearing gloves.

The difference was a chasm, an unbridgeable void. He didn' t care about me. He never had. He cared about her. And that, in its stark simplicity, was the most painful truth of all. There was no more love to die. It was already a corpse, meticulously embalmed by his indifference.

I tried to slip away, to avoid another confrontation, but Isabel' s sharp eyes caught me.

"Ava! There you are!" she called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Her gaze, however, was fixed on the locket, gleaming at my throat. "Oh, what a pretty little trinket. So quaint."

Killian turned, his eyes briefly landing on me, then on the locket, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

Isabel pouted, tugging on Killian' s arm. "Killian, look! It' s really pretty. I want one! You always get Ava such nice things."

My jaw dropped. He had never gotten me anything by choice, only what was deemed appropriate for his wife. And he had hated this locket!

Killian sighed, a sound of mild exasperation. "Isabel, darling, it' s just an old locket. Let it go."

But Isabel, ever the manipulator, was not to be deterred. Her eyes welled up theatrically. "But I love it! It' s so unique! You never say no to me, Killian! Are you saying you care more about Ava and her old things than me?"

Killian' s face tightened. He looked at me, then back at Isabel' s tear-filled eyes. He clearly couldn' t stand her distress. "Fine, fine, my love. Don' t cry. Ava, take off that... thing. Isabel wants it." His voice was flat, a command disguised as a request.

My hand instinctively flew to the locket, clutching it. "No," I said, my voice shaking with conviction. "This was my grandmother' s. It means something to me. It' s not for sale. It' s not to be given away."

Isabel' s eyes hardened. "She' s refusing you, Killian! She explicitly said no to your request! How dare she!" She stomped her foot, a childish tantrum in a grown woman' s body. "I want it! Now!"

Killian' s patience, thin at the best of times, snapped. He glared at me. "Ava, don' t make this difficult. How much do you want for it? Name your price."

"It' s not about the price, Killian!" I cried, my voice rising. "It' s priceless! It' s a family heirloom!" I turned to leave, my crutches clanking, a desperate attempt to escape.

But Isabel was faster. She lunged, her hand reaching for my throat, her fingers clawing at the locket. "Give it to me, you witch!" she shrieked. Her grip was surprisingly strong, pulling at the delicate chain.

I stumbled, my crutches clattering to the floor. My injured ankle twisted again, sending a fresh wave of agony through me. The locket' s chain snapped under Isabel' s frantic tugging. She fell back, a triumphant smirk on her face, the silver piece clutched in her hand.

Killian rushed to her side, his usual concern clouding his face. "Isabel! Are you hurt?"

She giggled, holding up the locket. "I got it! Now it' s mine!"

But then, her smile twisted into a sneer. With a malicious gleam in her eye, she opened the locket and tore out the faded old photograph inside. She crushed the locket in her fist, its delicate silver bending and twisting into an unrecognizable mess. Then, with a triumphant cackle, she hurled the mangled piece of metal at me. It landed with a harsh clatter at my feet, a broken, desecrated relic.

"There!" she said, her chest heaving with exertion and malicious pleasure. "Now you have nothing!" She grabbed Killian' s arm, her voice sweet and childlike again. "Now, baby, pick me up! I' m so tired."

Killian, without a moment' s hesitation, scooped her into his arms, carrying her towards the grand staircase. He didn' t glance at me, didn' t acknowledge the broken locket, didn' t register the fresh tears streaming down my face.

I was left alone in the vast, echoing foyer, the mangled pieces of my grandmother' s locket lying at my feet, a final, cruel testament to the destruction of everything I held dear. My wrist, where Isabel had clawed at me, was bleeding. My ankle throbbed with a pain that mirrored the hollow ache in my chest. My heart was utterly, completely, irrevocably dead. There was nothing left but a vast, silent emptiness. And in that emptiness, a cold, unyielding resolve began to form.