Chapter 4

Ava quickly gathered her spilled belongings, her heart pounding.

She had managed to stop the full revelation, for now.

Marcus, his attention successfully diverted, turned back to her, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Muse, are you alright? That fall looked nasty. And your arm..."

He still didn't know. He was still operating in his world of blissful ignorance about the baby.

"I'm fine," Ava said, her voice tight.

Marcus was all apologies and concern. "I'm so sorry, Muse. About the stairs, about everything. Thank God you and the baby are okay."

He reached out to touch her stomach.

She flinched away.

His hand dropped. He looked hurt.

The irony was a bitter pill. His profound concern for a child that no longer existed.

His sincerity seemed genuine, if it weren't for the monumental lie their entire relationship was built upon.

Ava watched him, a detached part of her mind cataloging his expressions.

The worried frown, the gentle tone, the seemingly earnest apologies.

It was a performance, whether he knew it or not.

A performance for an audience of one, who was no longer buying tickets.

She felt a deep weariness settle over her.

She didn't want to talk, didn't want to explain.

She just wanted it to be over.

She closed her eyes, feigning exhaustion.

"I just want to go home," she whispered.

Marcus immediately became the attentive caregiver.

He arranged for a wheelchair, helped her gently into the car.

At the penthouse, he fussed over her, plumping pillows, fetching her water.

The housekeeper, Maria, witnessed his devotion.

"Mr. Thorne is such a good husband," Maria commented to Ava later, when Marcus was on a call. "He takes such good care of you."

Ava just nodded, a faint, tired smile on her lips.

The world saw a devoted husband. She saw a man living a lie, keeping her trapped in it with him.

During her recovery at home, Ava maintained her emotional distance.

She was polite, but cool. She avoided his touch, his attempts at conversation.

Marcus seemed to attribute her withdrawal to hormonal fluctuations, to the stress of the "fall."

"You're just a bit down, Muse," he'd say gently. "It's normal during pregnancy. Maybe the fall shook you up more than we thought."

He was so convinced of his own narrative.

She let him believe it. It was easier than fighting.

A week later, Marcus orchestrated a grand gesture of reconciliation.

He chartered a private yacht for an evening cruise around Manhattan.

A string quartet played her favorite classical pieces. A Michelin-starred chef prepared a lavish dinner.

"For you, Muse," he said, presenting her with an antique diamond bracelet. "To show you how much I love you, how sorry I am for everything."

He spoke of their future, of their family, of the "little masterpiece" on the way.

For a fleeting moment, under the starlit sky, with the city lights glittering, Ava felt a pang of something akin to her old feelings.

The romance of it, the sheer extravagance, was seductive.

Then she moved her arm, the burn still tender beneath the silk of her dress.

Her ankle throbbed beneath the table.

And the image of the spilled ashes on the marble floor flashed in her mind.

The moment shattered. The glittering city lights seemed cold, mocking.

The beautiful illusion was irrevocably broken.

She looked at Marcus, his face earnest in the candlelight.

He was trying so hard, building a new fantasy on the wreckage of the old one.

"You're still not happy," Marcus said later, back in the penthouse. His voice held a note of frustration.

"Ava, I'm doing everything I can. Maybe... maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist? For the baby blues, or whatever this is."

He was still misdiagnosing her, still clinging to the pregnancy as the source of all her moods.

Ava took a deep breath. It was time.

"Marcus," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "We need to talk about Isabelle."

He stiffened. His eyes, which had been soft with concern, became guarded.

A subtle shift, a drawing down of a curtain.

The change was almost imperceptible, but Ava, now attuned to his deceptions, saw it clearly.

He was preparing his next lie.