Chapter 2

Back in the sterile hospital room, Chloe filled in more blanks.

Each word was a nail in the coffin of the Ava I remembered.

"You sold your art supplies, Ava. All of them. Said you needed to focus on... on being a supportive wife."

My brushes, my paints, my canvases. Gone.

"And the apartment in the Mission? You let the lease go. Said the neighborhood wasn't suitable anymore."

My vibrant, chaotic, inspiring home. Abandoned.

"You even changed your wardrobe. All black, grey, navy. Power suits. Designer dresses. Nothing like your old style."

My ripped jeans, band t-shirts, leather jackets. Replaced.

It was like hearing about a different person, a hollow shell.

"Why?" I whispered, the question tearing at me. "Why would I do all that?"

Chloe hesitated. "You were... very determined to make the marriage work, Ava. To fit into Ethan's world. You said you loved him."

Loved him? This cold, dismissive man? The Ethan I remembered from five years ago was arrogant, aloof. The Ethan I'd seen today was a stranger who denied my existence.

"This marriage," I said, trying to piece it together. "It was arranged, right? For the businesses?"

"Yes," Chloe confirmed. "Miller Estates and Hayes Hospitality. Your parents and his parents, they pushed for it. It was a massive deal. The merger was contingent on the marriage."

So, I was a commodity. Traded for shares and market positions.

No wonder Ethan was so cold. He probably resented being forced into it as much as I resented this life I didn't recognize.

But Chloe said I loved him. That I had tried.

It didn't make sense.

My phone buzzed. A message. From "Husband."

*Mr. Peterson will collect you from the hospital at 3 PM. Your belongings are at the house.*

Not even a "Hope you're feeling better." Just a directive.

I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud.

"I can't do this, Chloe," I said, my voice shaking. "I can't be this person. This... Stepford wife."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. But I'm not going to be his puppet."

Mr. Peterson, a man with a perpetually worried expression, collected me as scheduled. He was polite but distant, like an undertaker.

The "house" was a mansion in Pacific Heights, overlooking the bay. It was stunning, opulent, and utterly soulless.

Ethan wasn't there.

Of course, he wasn't.

Peterson showed me to a suite of rooms. Beautifully decorated, impersonal. Like a luxury hotel.

"Mr. Hayes regrets he cannot be here to welcome you. He has an urgent business trip," Peterson intoned.

"I'm sure he does," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

He left me alone in the gilded cage.

I wandered through the rooms. My clothes hung in a vast walk-in closet – rails of expensive, boring garments. My face stared back at me from a silver-framed photo on a nightstand – a formal portrait, me and Ethan, both smiling stiffly. We looked like strangers.

I found a locked door. My old instincts kicked in. I jiggled the handle, then looked around. A hairpin from the dressing table. A few seconds later, the lock clicked.

It was an office. His office, clearly. But on one wall, covered by a dust sheet, was an easel.

My easel.

And stacked against the wall, canvases. My canvases.

I pulled off the sheet.

Portraits of Ethan.

Dozens of them. Sketches, half-finished paintings, completed works.

All of him.

Rendered with a skill I recognized, but with an emotion that terrified me. Love. Longing. Desperation.

This was what I had been doing in my gilded cage. Secretly painting the man who barely acknowledged my existence.

The phone rang, a landline in the master suite. I picked it up.

"Ava? Darling, it's Mom."

My mother. Her voice was strained.

"I heard about the accident. Are you alright? The press hasn't gotten hold of it, have they? It could destabilize the merger talks if there's any hint of... instability in the marriage."

Not "Are you okay, honey?" but "Is the merger okay?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I said, my voice flat.

"Good. Because you know, your father and I, and the Hayeses, we're all hoping for an announcement soon. An heir would really solidify things."

An heir. Of course. The next step in the business plan.

I felt sick.

"I have to go, Mom." I hung up before she could say more.

I felt trapped, suffocated by this life, by these expectations.

Later that evening, Ethan's phone, the one Peterson had left on the charger, rang. I saw the caller ID. Zoe Chandler.

A cold fury gripped me. I answered it.

"Ethan, darling," Zoe purred. "Just checking in. Aspen is divine. Wish you were here... oh, wait, you are." A soft laugh. "The suite is magnificent. Though, I think we made better use of it last night."

My blood ran cold. Aspen. He was supposed to be on a business trip. With her.

"This isn't Ethan," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Ava. What a surprise. I thought you'd be... indisposed."

"He's on a business trip with you, isn't he?"

"Jealous, darling? Don't be. It's just business. With benefits." Her voice was smug, dripping with malice.

I slammed the phone down, my hand shaking.

Betrayal. Humiliation. Rage.

I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed my own phone, the sleek, unfamiliar one. My fingers fumbled through the contacts.

Liam.

Liam Walker. Childhood friend. The one who understood my art, my spirit.

His name was there.

I pressed call.

He answered on the second ring, his voice warm, familiar. "Ava? Is that you? Chloe told me about the accident. Are you okay?"

Tears welled in my eyes. "Liam," I choked out. "I need... I need to feel alive again. I need to ride. Can you help me?"

A pause. Then, "Meet me at the old warehouse. Midnight. You remember where it is?"

The old warehouse by the docks. Where the underground races happened.

"I remember," I said, a spark of my old self igniting in the darkness. "I'll be there."