Chapter 4 4

Chloe, naturally, was Ethan's first concern upon regaining full consciousness.

He heard she was "traumatized" by the attack and immediately, against all medical advice, ignoring his own still-critical injuries, chartered a private jet to be with her in St. Barts.

He didn't ask about me, didn't thank me for the blood.

It was as if my contribution, my presence, was simply an expected utility.

I watched the news of his departure on the small hospital TV, a detached observer to my own erasure.

He returned to New York a week later, looking pale but determinedly cheerful.

He found me packing the last of my personal effects from a small apartment I'd leased, a temporary measure before my move to Austin.

He was oblivious to the suitcases, the near-empty rooms.

"Ava! There you are," he said, relief flooding his voice.

"I've been so worried. Chloe was a wreck, absolutely beside herself."

"But she's better now. And I wanted to make things up to you. For everything."

He presented me with a lavish gift: a rare, first-edition collection of classic literature I'd once mentioned admiring.

A peace offering. A superficial gesture to smooth over a chasm of betrayal.

"Thank you, Ethan," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "It's lovely."

I accepted the heavy, leather-bound volumes, the irony a bitter taste in my mouth.

He beamed, misinterpreting my polite acceptance as forgiveness.

Two days later, the orchestrated crisis unfolded.

Chloe, back in Manhattan, called Ethan in a panic.

"Kidnapped! Someone grabbed me! They want a ransom!"

Her screams were theatrical, unconvincing to my ears, but Ethan bought it hook, line, and sinker.

He immediately diverted all his resources, his security team, his attention, to "rescuing" Chloe.

I, meanwhile, was en route to a final settlement meeting with Reed Innovate's lawyers, a meeting Ethan was supposed to attend.

His sudden absence, explained away by a frantic call from his assistant about a "dire family emergency," left me dealing with a hostile legal team alone.

During a recess, while grabbing a coffee, a "stray" cyclist, moving with unnatural precision in the crowded street, knocked me down.

My ankle twisted sharply, a flare of pain shooting up my leg.

The cyclist, offering a cursory apology, vanished into the throng.

Just a clumsy accident, I told myself, though a sliver of unease pricked at me.

Later that evening, the news broke.

Ethan Reed, heroic CEO, had "single-handedly negotiated" Chloe Vahn's release.

At a hastily arranged press conference outside the "kidnapper's" hideout (a conspicuously luxurious downtown loft), Ethan, his arm protectively around a tearful Chloe, made a stunning declaration.

"This monster," he gestured vaguely towards the building, "threatened the woman I love."

"But he was mistaken. He thought he had leverage with Chloe."

He paused, his gaze finding a specific news camera.

"But the truth is, I despise Chloe Vahn. She has been a plague on my life."

"The woman I truly love, the woman I would die for, the woman I will marry, is Ava Miller."

Chloe gasped, a flawless performance of shock and heartbreak.

The press erupted.

I watched it on a hotel TV, my ankle throbbing, a cold understanding dawning.

He was using me.

Using my name, our supposed love, as a shield, a decoy.

Chloe was the prize.

I was the expendable pawn, publicly declared to throw the real threat – whoever that might be – off Chloe's scent.

My injury, the "accidental" cyclist... it all clicked into a horrifying pattern.

He was making me a target.