Chapter 4

The slanderous whispers grew bolder as the night wore on.

"She looks terrible. Probably guilty about something."

"They say she was always a bit wild, before she landed Ethan."

"He's too good for her, clearly. Sticking by her even after... you know."

Ava felt her face flush with a mixture of outrage and deep, chilling humiliation. She was being judged, condemned, by people who knew nothing, fueled by the narrative Ethan had so carefully crafted.

She tried to find Ethan, to tell him they needed to leave, but he was always surrounded, Izzy clinging to his arm, playing the part of the delicate, cherished expectant mother.

Later, near a lavishly decorated water feature in the ballroom, a group of Izzy's socialite friends cornered Ava.

Their smiles were predatory, their eyes cold.

"Ava, darling," one of them, a blonde named Tiffany, purred. "We were just saying how brave Ethan is. To stand by you, after... well, after everything."

"It must be so difficult for him," another chimed in, "juggling Izzy's needs and... your situation."

Their words were honey-laced venom.

"Accidentally," Tiffany's champagne flute tilted, its contents splashing down the front of Ava's black dress.

"Oh, clumsy me!" Tiffany exclaimed, her eyes glinting with malice.

Before Ava could react, another woman "stumbled," shoving Ava hard from behind.

Ava lost her balance, gasping as she pitched forward, right into the cold, shallow water of the decorative fountain.

The shock of the icy water stole her breath. She choked, sputtering, as laughter erupted around her.

She struggled to her feet, drenched and humiliated, her hair plastered to her face, mascara running down her cheeks.

The socialites were still tittering, their faces alight with cruel amusement.

"Someone needs to learn some grace," one of them sneered.

Suddenly, Ethan was there. He waded into the fountain, his expression a mixture of shock and concern.

He lifted her out, his arms strong around her. For a fleeting moment, she felt a flicker of the old Ethan, the protector.

Then he spoke, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent ballroom.

"Ava, are you alright?" He held her, dripping, before the assembled guests.

Then, addressing the crowd, his voice filled with noble suffering, "Please, everyone. My wife... she's been through a terrible ordeal. She's not herself. I will stand by her, of course. Despite her... difficult circumstances."

The implication was clear. He was the martyr, bravely enduring his compromised wife.

The crowd murmured sympathetically. For him.

The brief relief Ava had felt curdled into a fresh wave of despair. He hadn't defended her. He'd used her humiliation to further burnish his own image.

This was his "chivalry." A public lie that painted him as a hero and her as damaged goods.

Later, in the car, he was all gentle concern.

"Ava, I'm so sorry that happened. Those women were dreadful."

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

"I'll talk to Izzy," he continued, his tone placating. "She needs to rein in her friends. And... once the baby shower is over, once Izzy is settled, things will be different. We can... we can get back to how we were."

Get back to how they were?

Ava stared out at the blurry city lights, a cold laugh trapped in her throat.

There was no going back. Not from this.

"It's too late, Ethan," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.

He sighed. "Don't say that, Ava. We can fix this."

She didn't respond. What was there to say? He still didn't get it. He never would.

When they arrived at the penthouse, he tried to help her out of the car.

"I'm fine," she said, shrugging off his hand.

He looked hurt. "Ava, I just want to help."

"I'm going to bed," she said, walking away from him.

He didn't follow. She heard him on the phone as she walked down the hall, his voice low and soothing.

"Izzy? Yes, we're home. No, she's... she's just tired. Don't worry about it. Are you comfortable? Need anything?"

He was already back to tending his precious Izzy.

That was the final straw. Not the public humiliation, not the lies, but this quiet, consistent prioritizing of another woman's comfort over her own pain.

She walked into their master suite, the opulent room suddenly feeling like a prison.

She went to the vast walk-in closet, larger than some New York apartments.

Her side was filled with designer clothes, shoes, bags – trappings of a life she no longer recognized, a life with a man she no longer knew.

Systematically, calmly, she began to pull items from hangers, from shelves.

She didn't pack them into suitcases.

She piled them on the floor. Gowns, cashmere sweaters, silk blouses.

A mountain of expensive fabric.

She found a large, empty garment bag, the kind used for storing out-of-season furs.

She began stuffing the clothes into it, a symbolic erasure of her presence.

She was halfway through when Ethan walked in, looking surprised.

"Ava? What are you doing? It's late."

His eyes fell on the pile of clothes, the bulging garment bag. A flicker of confusion, then something like alarm, crossed his face.

"Are you... cleaning out your closet?"