Chapter 4

The twins' christening was an extravagant affair at the family's sprawling Connecticut estate. I was expected to attend, to play the part of the supportive, albeit infertile, wife. Ethan's parents made that clear.

During a toast, Ethan, emboldened by champagne and his parents' beaming approval, made a suggestion.

"And perhaps," he said, smiling benignly at me, "Ava might even consider legally adopting the boys. Given her own... challenges. To make us all one big, happy family."

The room went quiet. All eyes on me. He was publicly offering me his mistress's children, a cruel reminder of the accident where I'd saved his life, the accident that made me unable to bear his children. My sacrifice, now a footnote to his new narrative.

My lawyer had warned me Skyler might try something. She did.

During the reception, one of the twins, briefly in my vicinity while I spoke to an old family friend, suddenly developed an angry red rash on his face and started wailing.

Skyler rushed over, scooping him up. "Oh my god! What happened?" She shot a panicked, accusatory look at me. "Were you eating nuts, Ava? He's allergic!"

I hadn't touched any nuts. I hadn't even been that close.

But Richard, Ethan's father, didn't wait for explanations. He strode over, his face purple with rage.

"How could you be so careless?" he hissed, and then his hand cracked across my face.

The sting was sharp, shocking. The public humiliation complete.

In the ensuing chaos, Ethan just stood there, watching, his expression unreadable. He didn't defend me. He didn't even look at me.

My composure, carefully maintained for weeks, finally shattered.

Through the ringing in my ears, I pulled the divorce papers from my clutch, the ones my lawyer had prepared. I walked straight to Ethan, my hand surprisingly steady.

"Sign them, Ethan."

He stared at the papers, then at me, his face a mixture of shock and fury.

"You're doing this now? Here?"

"Yes," I said, my voice clear despite the tremor in my heart. "Here. Now."

Humiliated, enraged, he snatched the pen from my hand and scrawled his signature across the documents.

It was done.

I walked out of that party, head held high, leaving behind the wreckage of my marriage.

A few days later, I went back to our Park Avenue penthouse to collect my remaining personal belongings. Maria met me at the door, her eyes sad.

"Mrs. Thorne... Ava... I'm so sorry."

The apartment was different. My things, my touches, were gone. My favorite armchair replaced. My books vanished from the shelves. Photographs of us, erased. It was as if I had never lived there.

Skyler's influence was everywhere – new, garish art, a different scent in the air.

"Mr. Thorne had most of your things put into storage," Maria whispered. "Miss Skyler... she wanted to redecorate."

Dispossession. Erasure. They hadn't just ended our marriage; they were trying to wipe away my very existence within it. The anger was a cold, hard knot in my stomach.