Chapter 5

Marcus regained his composure almost instantly.

"Isabelle?" he said, his tone carefully neutral. "What about her, Muse?"

"Are you still in love with her?" Ava asked, the words hanging heavy in the air.

He manufactured a light laugh. "In love with Izzy? Of course not. That was a lifetime ago. She's an old friend, that's all. You're my everything, Ava. You and our baby."

He reached for her hand.

Ava pulled her hand away.

The practiced ease of his denial was chilling. He didn't even hesitate.

She could see the lie in his eyes, hear it in the forced casualness of his voice.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice flat.

She felt a wave of revulsion. Not just for him, but for herself, for believing him for so long.

Marcus frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.

He'd noticed her consistent physical rejection. It was clearly starting to bother him.

"Ava, what's gotten into you? Who's been putting these ideas in your head?"

He tried to sound reasonable, concerned, but there was an edge to his voice now.

Before Ava could answer, his phone, lying on the coffee table, buzzed insistently.

Isabelle's name flashed on the screen.

He glanced at it, then back at Ava, his jaw tight.

He didn't answer the call immediately. But then it buzzed again, and again.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, he snatched it up.

"Izzy? What is it now?" His voice was impatient, but there was an underlying note of concern.

Ava watched as his expression changed.

His eyes widened, his face paled.

"What? Are you okay? Where are you?"

He listened for a moment, then said, "Stay right there. Don't move. I'm coming."

He hung up, his face grim.

"Izzy's been mugged," he said to Ava, already moving towards the door. "She's hysterical. I have to go."

He was out of the apartment before Ava could utter a single word.

Abandoned. Again. For Isabelle.

A cold, numb certainty settled over Ava.

She needed to see. She needed to know, once and for all.

His car had a tracker. He'd insisted on it for "safety."

She opened the app on her phone. His car was heading downtown, towards SoHo.

She grabbed her keys and purse and left.

She found his car parked haphazardly outside a chic café in a quiet cobblestone street.

Through the window, she saw them.

Marcus, leaning over a table, his arm around Isabelle.

Isabelle was not hysterical. She was not injured.

She was sipping a latte, looking perfectly fine, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips as she gazed up at Marcus.

He was comforting her, his expression full of tender concern.

Ava watched for a long moment, the scene etching itself into her memory.

The lie was complete, undeniable.

Marcus eventually took Isabelle to the same hospital as before, for "shock" after the "mugging."

Ava didn't follow them there this time. She didn't need to.

But the next day, Ava had a follow-up appointment for an unrelated blood test she'd had before the "fall."

While waiting to sign some discharge papers at the nurses' station, she overheard a nurse speaking to a colleague.

"Mr. Thorne was in again last night. Updated his emergency contact and health proxy. Changed it from his wife to a Ms. Isabelle Vance."

Ava felt a bitter taste in her mouth.

Even in medical emergencies, Isabelle came first.

She signed her papers, her hand steady, and walked out.

The divorce papers Marcus had signed lay on her dresser. He hadn't even asked about them again.

His lawyers had been in touch with hers. The process was moving forward.

A few days later, Brad, Marcus's friend, called Ava. He sounded sober this time, and almost apologetic.

"Look, Ava, I... I shouldn't have said what I did the other night. But Marcus is in a tough spot."

"What spot is that, Brad?" Ava asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

"Isabelle's family, they're old money, European. They're trying to pressure her into an arranged marriage. She's distraught. Marcus feels he has to help her."

Ava listened, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

She heard Marcus in the background, his voice confident, dismissive.

"She won't go through with it. I'll handle it. Don't worry about Izzy."

Then, his voice dropped, but Ava could still hear him. "And Ava? She'll understand. She worships me. She'll be fine."

Worships him.

Ava hung up.

She packed a single suitcase.

She left the penthouse, the key on the vast, empty dining table.

Next to it, the small velvet box containing the ashes. And the finalized divorce decree, delivered by her lawyer that morning.

She took a cab to JFK and boarded a flight to California.

She had an acceptance to a prestigious MFA program at a university near San Francisco, an application she'd submitted months ago, before the "masterpiece" had taken over her life.

As the plane taxied down the runway, Marcus texted: "Muse, those prenatal vitamins are on your nightstand. Don't forget to take them. Be a good girl. I'll be back to celebrate after I sort this Isabelle thing."

Ava stared at the message, then blocked his number.

The plane lifted into the sky, leaving New York and Marcus Thorne behind.