Chapter 1

Ava Miller married Ethan Cole when she was twenty-four. He was thirty-eight, a charismatic tech CEO in New York City, a man who seemed to command the world with a glance.

He was intense, passionate, and in their first three years of marriage, he made Ava feel like the center of his universe.

His eyes, a deep, serious blue, often fixed on her with an adoration that made her heart swell.

Ava loved him completely, trusted him without question, and now, she carried their first child.

A subtle current of something she couldn't name sometimes ran beneath his focused attention, a flicker in his gaze when he thought she wasn't looking, but she always dismissed it.

She was cherished, she was loved, and their life was perfect.

Then, one ordinary Tuesday, Ava's world fractured. Her mother called, her voice tight with panic.

"Ava, it's your father. A heart attack. It's... it's bad."

Ava's breath hitched. She fumbled for her phone, her hands shaking as she dialed Ethan. He was supposed to be at a tech summit in London.

Voicemail.

She called again. And again.

Dozens of calls, frantic texts pleading for him to answer, to come home.

Silence.

Hours later, Chloe, Ava's best friend who happened to be in London on a design project, sent a photo.

It was Ethan.

His arm was wrapped tightly around a woman, their heads close, his expression intimate.

The woman was Olivia Hayes, Ava's older, accomplished cousin.

Ava stared at the image, a cold dread seeping into her bones, stealing the air from her lungs. The man in the photo was not the husband she thought she knew.

Ethan returned two days later, after Ava's father had already passed. He walked into their apartment, his face a mask of concern, feigning ignorance about her unanswered calls.

"My phone died, reception was terrible at the summit venue, a total nightmare," he said, his voice smooth, practiced.

He offered lavish apologies, promises of a memorial trip, anything to compensate for his absence.

Ava felt nothing but a chilling emptiness.

She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw a stranger.

"I need you to sign some papers," she said, her voice flat, devoid of the tears he probably expected.

She placed a folder on the marble island in their kitchen.

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Papers? For what? Another charity gala?"

Ethan picked up the folder, his demeanor casual, almost dismissive.

"A new property, darling?" he asked, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. "Or perhaps that little gallery space you mentioned wanting to support?"

He flipped through the pages quickly, his attention elsewhere, already planning his next move, his next public display of affection.

He assumed her coldness was temporary, a grief-stricken woman's understandable anger.

He still believed he had her, that she was his.

"Of course, whatever you need," he said, reaching for his pen. "Especially now. We need to focus on our family, on our baby."

He touched her stomach lightly, a gesture that once filled her with warmth, now felt like a violation.

He had no idea what she truly intended, no inkling of the chasm that had opened between them.

Later that night, Ava heard Ethan on the phone in his study. His voice was low, intimate, a tone she hadn't heard him use with her in a long time, if ever.

"Olivia, I know. It was... intense seeing you." A pause. "London was good for us to reconnect, don't you think?"

Ava stood frozen outside the door, the words confirming the betrayal that had been a raw wound since she saw the photo.

He spoke of shared memories, of a future that clearly included Olivia in some significant way.

Ava turned and walked silently back to their bedroom.

The wind outside their penthouse window howled, a cold, mournful sound that echoed the desolation in her heart. She packed nothing, just sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.

She remembered the first time she met Ethan Cole. She was a photography student, interning at a gallery. He'd come to an opening, exuding power and charm.

He'd singled her out, his attention unwavering. He praised her eye, her ambition.

He was older, worldly, and he made her feel seen, special.

Their courtship was a whirlwind of expensive dinners, surprise trips, and grand gestures.

He had seemed so genuinely interested in her, in her dreams, in building a life with her.

She had fallen hard, believing he was her great love story. Now, that story felt like a carefully constructed lie.

Ethan had always been eager for a child.

"A little Ava running around," he'd say, his voice soft, "or a little Ethan for you to spoil."

He spoke of legacy, of family, of the joy a child would bring to their perfect life.

His desire seemed natural, loving.

Ava, wanting a family deeply, had been thrilled.

Now, his eagerness took on a sinister new meaning.

Was it her child he wanted, or a child that fit a different picture in his mind?

The thought was a cold stone in her stomach.

Her father's last days replayed in her mind. The frantic calls to Ethan, the desperate hope that he would appear, be the strong husband she needed.

He never did.

Her father had slipped away while Ethan was in London, chasing a ghost, or perhaps, a reality Ava had been blind to.

Her father's last whispered words to her were about wanting to see her happy, truly happy, and to hold his grandchild.

A wish unfulfilled, a regret that now burned in Ava's memory, fueled by Ethan's casual excuse of a "dead phone."

The excuse felt like another grain of sand in the mountain of his deceit.

A week after Ethan's return, while he was at a board meeting, Ava felt a desperate need for answers. She went to his private home office, a room she rarely entered.

She knew the code. He'd told her once, casually, as if it didn't matter.

Inside, it was meticulously organized, except for one locked drawer in his antique desk. She found the key hidden in a book on his shelf – a biography of a ruthless tycoon.

Her hands trembled as she turned the lock.

The drawer slid open, revealing not business papers, but a shrine.

Photos of Olivia Hayes. Dozens of them. Olivia laughing, Olivia on a beach, Olivia at art galas.

Bundles of letters, handwritten notes from Ethan to Olivia, filled with passionate declarations.

And a small, leather-bound digital journal. Ethan's journal.

Her heart pounded as she switched it on.

The journal entries spanned years. They detailed his consuming love for Olivia, his devastation when Olivia chose her international art career over him.

Then, the entries shifted. He wrote about seeing Ava at a university event.

He wrote about her striking resemblance to a younger Olivia.

He wrote about a plan.

Ava read, her blood turning to ice. Ethan had orchestrated their "meet-cute."

The minor street incident near her university, where he had played the hero, rushing to her aid after a cyclist nearly knocked her down – it was staged.

He'd hired the cyclist.

He'd engineered it all because she looked like Olivia.

His desire for their child, he wrote, was a desire for a child that would carry Olivia's features, a living link to the woman he truly loved.

Ava felt sick. Her entire marriage, her love, her pregnancy – all built on a monstrous lie. She was a substitute.

The words on the screen blurred. Ava sank to the floor, the journal slipping from her grasp.

She wasn't Ava to him. She was a stand-in, a ghost of Olivia.

Her love, her trust, her very identity in their marriage – it was all a sham.

A cold rage, clear and sharp, began to burn through the shock.

She would not be his Olivia. She would not be a vessel for his obsession.

Her child would not be a pawn in his twisted game.

She stood up, a new resolve hardening her gaze.

She would erase this lie. She would reclaim herself.

She would sweep her heart clean of Ethan Cole.

Two days later, feigning a fragile reconciliation, Ava approached Ethan with the folder of documents again.

"Just a few more signatures for that property investment, darling," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

He was distracted, on a call, and signed without a second glance.

The papers were not for a property.

They were divorce papers, granting her full control over their prenuptial agreement's exit clause.

And medical consent forms.

What Ethan didn't know, what he would not know for a long time, was that Ava had already visited a clinic.

The day before, she had made a painful, solitary choice.

There would be no baby to look like Olivia.

There would be no child to bind her to this lie.

She had already had the abortion.

She would not be a substitute, and neither would her child.