Chapter 8

KILLIAN RUTLEDGE POV:

Isabel' s pout quickly evaporated, replaced by a triumphant smile. "Oh, you' re the best, Killian!" she cooed, her arms wrapping around my waist. "I knew you weren' t mad. You just get so busy, my poor baby." She leaned in for a kiss, her eyes already gleaming with the anticipation of expensive crepes and a renewed sense of control.

I forced a smile, but my mind was elsewhere. The text message. The unsettling thought of Ava actually gone. It was like a splinter, lodged deep, refusing to be dislodged. Isabel, sensing my distraction, gave me a playful shove.

"Well, since that old baggage is finally gone," she announced, her voice too loud, too cheerful, "we can finally make this place truly ours, can' t we?" Her eyes scanned the room, a possessive gleam in them.

Over the next few weeks, Isabel' s idea of making the house "truly ours" became a destructive rampage. She started with what she called "Ava' s awful taste." The antique porcelain vases Ava loved were smashed, the abstract paintings that had adorned the walls, carefully curated by Ava, were ripped down and burned in the outdoor fireplace. She even found some old photo albums, filled with pictures of Ava and her family, and threw them into the flames, laughing as the images curled and blackened.

The house, once a sanctuary of quiet elegance, became a shrine to Isabel' s garish preferences and impulsive destruction. She filled it with neon lights, fluffy pillows, and tacky modern art. She even found the custom-made wedding album-ours, Ava' s and mine-and ceremoniously ripped out all of Ava' s pictures, replacing them with glamour shots of herself.

I returned home one evening to find the main living room transformed into a chaotic wasteland. Broken pottery lay scattered across the floor, ash from the fireplace coated the expensive rugs, and a giant, inflatable unicorn pool float occupied the center of the room. My mysophobia flared, my skin crawling, but before I could react, Isabel rushed to me, throwing her arms around my neck, her lips pressing against mine.

"Surprise, baby!" she chirped, pulling back, her eyes bright. "I finally got rid of all of Ava' s boring old stuff! Isn' t it wonderful? Now it feels like us!" She gestured grandly at the wreckage. "I just love you so much, Killian. Everything I do is for you."

I looked at the shattered remains of a Ming vase, a family heirloom Ava had inherited, now just shards on the floor. My stomach tightened. But then she kissed me again, her lips soft, her body warm, and the anger, the creeping unease, subsided.

"Yes, my angel," I murmured, pulling her closer. "It' s... lovely." Her destruction, her chaos, was forgiven, justified by her unwavering, if performative, devotion.

A few days later, emboldened by my leniency, Isabel announced her next project. "Killian, I want to work with you! I want to be your creative director! Imagine, me, making your company even cooler!"

I hesitated. Isabel was... vibrant, but her understanding of corporate strategy was nonexistent. Her "creativity" usually manifested in a new social media stunt or an ill-advised fashion choice. But she pouted, she pleaded, she brought up the mountain again, and I, caught between her insistent demands and my fading guilt, eventually capitulated.

Her tenure as "creative director" was a disaster. She rearranged my meticulously organized office, replacing my ergonomic chair with a neon pink beanbag. She forced me to take selfies with her during meetings, interrupting crucial discussions with her frivolous demands. During an important business lunch with a potential Japanese investor, she loudly complained about the traditional sushi, insisting on ordering a greasy hamburger instead, mortifying me and nearly scuttling the deal. I spent hours apologizing, salvaging the contract with a combination of charm and generous concessions.

A growing knot of irritation began to tighten in my chest. This wasn' t working. My company, my legacy, was not a playground for her whims.

"Isabel," I tried one evening, gently, "perhaps working from home would be better for you. More creative freedom, less... office structure."

Her eyes immediately welled up. "You don' t want me around? You think I' m stupid? Is it because of Ava? Is she still in your head? After I saved your life, Killian, you owe me!"

The familiar blackmail. The emotional manipulation, cloaked in the guise of her heroic past. My resolve crumbled. I ran my hand through my hair, a heavy sigh escaping my lips. "No, my love. Of course not. You' re brilliant. Just... sometimes... a little too brilliant for the corporate world." I conceded, again.

But the seed of doubt had been planted. Late at night, as Isabel snored softly beside me, my mind would drift. I' d think of Ava. Her quiet efficiency, her meticulous organization, the way she had always anticipated my needs without a word. She had been the anchor in my chaotic life, the silent guardian of my sanity. And I had systematically destroyed her.

It had been almost two months since she left. Two months of silence. Two months without her calm presence, her quiet strength. I realized, with a sickening lurch, that I truly missed her. My memories of her were no longer clouded by my obsession with Isabel. Instead, they were sharp, clear, and filled with a regret so profound it left me breathless.

Isabel, meanwhile, grew bolder. She would interrupt board meetings with dance routines, demanding my attention. She launched a disastrous marketing campaign based on her latest TikTok fad, costing the company millions. Each time, I tried to intervene, to assert my authority, but her tearful pleas, her insistent reminder of her "life-saving" act, always disarmed me.

"Killian, don' t you remember what I did for you? How can you deny me this? It' s for us!" she' d cry, her voice laced with accusation.

I would always give in. Trapped. Suffocated. But with each concession, the love, the gratitude I once felt for her, dwindled, replaced by a growing resentment, a suffocating sense of entrapment. The more she demanded, the more I wished for the quiet, unassuming presence of the woman I had so carelessly discarded. Ava.