Chapter 2

Ava dreamed.

Marcus, dazzling, at an exclusive gallery opening. Her father had taken her.

He'd smiled at her, his eyes alight. "You must be Professor Miller's brilliant daughter. He talks about you constantly."

He'd called her insightful. He'd hung on her every word about a obscure Renaissance painter.

That night felt like the beginning of everything.

Now, it felt like the start of an elaborate lie.

She woke up, the dream fading, the reality sharp and cold.

The penthouse felt alien, a stage set for a play she no longer had a part in.

She had to leave. Not just the apartment, but New York.

She picked up her phone, dialed her father.

"Dad," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I'm getting a divorce."

Professor Miller's voice was laced with concern. "Ava, honey, what happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Dad. We just... grew apart. It's for the best."

She couldn't tell him the whole truth. Not yet. The shame was too raw.

The lie about "growing apart" felt thin, but it was all she could offer.

He didn't press, just offered support, a place to stay.

"Come home, Ava. Whenever you're ready."

A notification pinged on her phone. Instagram. A new DM.

From Isabelle Vance.

Her heart lurched.

She opened it.

A short video. Marcus, asleep in a bed that wasn't theirs. He murmured, "Izzy..."

Ava's stomach twisted.

Below the video, a long, gloating message.

"He never got over me, sweetie. You were just a pale imitation. That tattoo he has on his hip? 'IV' – Isabelle Vance. Not Ava Miller. All those 'modern art' pieces he bought for 'you'? My favorites. He remembered every single one."

Ava felt sick.

The message continued, each word a deliberate sting.

"He's taking me to our old spot in the Hamptons for the next five days. The little beach house where we first fell in love. Bet he won't even call you. He's too busy with his real muse."

Ava's hands trembled.

She wanted to throw her phone, to scream. Instead, she took a shaky breath.

Her phone buzzed again. A text message. Marcus.

"Muse, a sudden business trip to London came up. Five days. My PA will see to anything you need. Take care of yourself and our little masterpiece."

Our little masterpiece. The baby he didn't know was gone.

London. Another lie.

Isabelle's prediction, fulfilled with chilling speed.

Ava felt a wave of despair, so profound it was almost numbing.

For the next five days, Isabelle's Instagram stories were a relentless assault.

Her and Marcus at a secluded beach house, the one from her gloating message.

Marcus smiling, looking relaxed, happy.

Them at wineries, clinking glasses.

Them on "Izzy's Dream," the sailboat.

All their old haunts, replayed for Ava's benefit. Each post was a fresh stab.

Ava watched, a detached observer of her own life's demolition.

She was the understudy, and the star had reclaimed her role.

The art Marcus bought "for her." The books. The clothes.

Gestures she'd cherished, now revealed as echoes of his past with Isabelle.

The rare first-edition art book? Isabelle was an art historian too, specializing in that period.

The low-sodium meals when she had migraines? Isabelle suffered from them too.

Every "thoughtful" act, every "personal" gift, was a phantom limb of his love for another woman.

She had been living in a meticulously crafted illusion.

Ava started packing.

Not her clothes, but his "gifts."

The paintings, the sculptures, the expensive trinkets.

She carefully placed them into boxes, labeling them: "Donation."

It was a purge. An attempt to reclaim some part of herself.

Each item boxed up was a piece of the lie discarded.

Marcus returned after five days, looking refreshed.

He saw the boxes stacked in the living room.

"Spring cleaning, Muse?" he asked, his tone light.

Then he presented her with a small, framed sketch. "Look what I acquired in London. Your favorite artist."

He tried to touch her stomach, his smile warm. "How's our little masterpiece?"

The housekeeper, Maria, bustled in. "Mr. Thorne, Ms. Ava hasn't been eating properly."

Marcus frowned, his gaze shifting to Ava.

Ava pulled away from his touch.

"Don't," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

"Don't call me Muse. And don't touch me."

The pretense was over. She wouldn't play her part anymore.

Marcus looked genuinely concerned, confused.

"Ava, what's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"

Maria, hovering nearby, said, "Mr. Thorne is so good to you, Ms. Ava. Always so thoughtful."

Ava almost laughed. Thoughtful. He was a master manipulator.

She looked at him, at the man she thought she knew.

Her past happiness, a carefully constructed stage.

And she, the lead actress, unknowingly playing a role written for someone else.

The realization was a bitter, cold thing settling in her heart.