Chapter 1

Ava Miller thought her life was a masterpiece.

At twenty-one, an art history student at NYU, she lived in a sun-drenched penthouse overlooking Central Park.

Her husband, Marcus Thorne, was thirty, a real estate tycoon known as "The Architect."

He was charming, successful, and nine years her senior.

Professor Miller, her father, had introduced them. Marcus was his former protégé.

Marcus called her "Muse."

He bought her a rare first-edition art book she'd mentioned once, a fleeting comment.

When migraines struck, a private chef prepared special low-sodium meals, just for her.

The penthouse walls were covered in art.

"I bought these for you, Muse," he'd say, a sweep of his hand indicating a new acquisition.

His prized vintage sailboat, docked in the Hamptons, was named "Izzy's Dream."

Ava thought Izzy was a grandmother, or a beloved childhood pet. A charming family name.

She felt cherished, secure in his grand gestures.

One Tuesday, Ava searched for an art monograph in Marcus's study.

The book wasn't on the main shelves.

Her fingers brushed against an ornate carving on his antique mahogany desk.

A slight click. A hidden compartment sprang open.

Inside, not dust, but a scrapbook. Leather-bound, meticulously kept.

Curiosity pulled her in.

She opened it.

Photos. Dozens of them. A woman with hair like hers, a smile that echoed her own.

But it wasn't Ava.

The woman was on a sailboat, the same one Marcus owned. At concerts, laughing.

The resemblance was unsettling, a distorted mirror.

A faded concert ticket fell from the pages.

Handwritten on the back, in Marcus's familiar script: "For Izzy, my only dream, my eternal muse."

Isabelle Vance. The name was printed on a small newspaper clipping tucked beside a photo.

A musician.

The world tilted. "Muse." The art. The sailboat.

It wasn't for her. It was never for her.

Ava was five months pregnant.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, winding her.

She was a replacement. A stand-in.

The baby... their baby... conceived in a lie.

The devastation was a cold, hollow ache.

She couldn't breathe in the penthouse anymore.

She made a decision, swift and brutal.

A discreet clinic in a neighboring state, one known for more permissive laws.

She told no one.

The procedure was a blur of hushed voices and sterile rooms.

After, they asked if she wanted the... remains.

She requested the ashes. A small, heavy container.

Back in New York, she found a high-powered attorney her father had once mentioned.

Divorce papers were drafted by morning.

Her hand shook as she dialed Marcus's number.

It rang. And rang.

Finally, a gruff voice answered. Not Marcus.

"Thorne's phone, who's this?"

It was Brad, Marcus's best friend, an investment banker, loud and brash.

Slurred words, background noise of a party. A bachelor party.

"Man, you won't believe this," Brad bellowed, clearly not to her. "Izzy's back in town! Thorne's already ditching the pregnant kid-bride. Some guys have all the luck, still hung up on the one that got away after all these years!"

The line went dead.

Ava stared at her phone. Pregnant kid-bride.

The words echoed.

Her breath hitched. Humiliation burned through the shock.

Her phone rang minutes later. Marcus.

His voice was smooth, full of concern. "Muse, what's wrong? I missed your call."

Ava's voice was flat. "Marcus, I want a divorce."

Silence. Then, a soft, feminine coo in the background.

"Marcus, darling, my champagne flute is empty..."

Izzy's voice. Unmistakable.

"Muse, I... I have to go. We'll talk later."

He hung up.

Ava's resolve hardened.

She walked into their bedroom, the one filled with "her" art.

She placed the crisp divorce papers on his side of the king-sized bed.

Next to them, a small, velvet-lined box.

Inside, the ashes.

Marcus returned late.

He carried a small, elegant box from her favorite artisanal macaron shop.

"Muse, I brought you a treat," he said, his smile easy, oblivious.

He saw her standing by the bed, her face pale.

She didn't look at the macarons.

She simply pointed to the papers and the small velvet box.

"What's this?" he asked, his smile faltering.

She handed him the divorce papers.

As he took them, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Izzy's name flashed on the screen.

He glanced at it, then back at the papers in his hand.

He didn't read them.

He picked up a pen from the nightstand, signed his name with a flourish.

"Whatever you want, Muse," he said, his voice tight. "My lawyers will handle it. My assets are yours."

He tossed the papers onto the bed, grabbed his phone, and answered it as he rushed out of the bedroom, out of the penthouse.

"Izzy? What's wrong? I'm on my way."

Ava heard the door slam.

She stood alone in the vast bedroom, the unsigned macarons forgotten on the dresser.

The silence was deafening.

She had been his muse, a placeholder for his dream.

And now, the dream had returned.