Chapter 3

The heavy metal door of the soundstage groaned open, a shaft of harsh light cutting through the gloom.

Ava flinched, her eyes squeezed shut.

Footsteps. Hurried, heavy.

Then his voice, raw with something she couldn't decipher. "Ava!"

Ethan.

He knelt beside her, his large frame blocking the light.

His face, when she forced her eyes open, was a mask of shock. Or so it seemed.

"Ava, my God, what happened to you? Who did this?"

His hands hovered over her, as if afraid to touch.

He looked genuinely distressed. The consummate actor.

She just stared at him, her throat too dry to speak, her mind a frozen landscape.

"Talk to me, Ava! Who did this to you?" His voice was urgent, demanding.

He gently tried to examine her broken hand, his touch surprisingly careful.

She didn't react. Didn't pull away. Didn't speak.

What was there to say? That his men had done a professional job? That he was the architect of her ruin?

He looked around the desolate space, his eyes narrowed. "How long have you been here?"

Silence.

He touched her forehead. "You're burning up. We need to get you to a hospital."

He scooped her into his arms. She was light, too light.

His movements were strong, efficient, the bodyguard emerging.

As he carried her out into the blinding daylight, he kept murmuring, "It's okay, Ava. I've got you. You're safe now."

Safe. The word was a cruel joke.

In the car, speeding through the city, he kept questioning her.

"Ava, please. You have to tell me. Who were they? Did you see their faces?"

She turned her head, looking out the window at the blurred cityscape.

The pain was a dull, throbbing counterpoint to the engine's hum.

He tried a different tack. "Was it about money? Did they want something?"

She remained silent. Her silence was a wall, and he kept throwing himself against it.

He reached for her left hand, the one that wasn't broken. His fingers were warm.

"Ava, I will find them. I swear to you. They will pay for this."

His voice was laced with a conviction that, once, she might have believed.

Now, it just sounded hollow.

They arrived at a private hospital, sleek and modern.

He carried her in, barking orders at the staff.

A whirlwind of doctors, nurses, hushed voices.

Later, in a private room, after they'd stabilized her, given her pain medication, and set her ankle in a temporary splint, he sat by her bed.

The drugs had dulled the sharp edges of the pain, but her mind was unnervingly clear.

He looked tired, his usually immaculate suit rumpled.

"Ava," he began, his voice softer now. "The doctors said... your hand... it's a bad break. And your Achilles... it's partially severed."

He paused, watching her face. "They said it was done... professionally."

She finally looked at him. Met his gaze.

A small, humorless smile touched her lips.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice raspy. "Very professional."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"They knew exactly where to hit," Ava continued, her voice gaining a little strength. "To cause the most damage. To ensure I wouldn't paint again. Not properly."

She paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"And the Achilles... so I can't stand for long. Can't teach. Can't even walk properly without a limp. Forever."

Ethan's face was pale. "Ava..."

"They were very thorough," she said, her voice flat. "Such attention to detail. Almost artistic, wouldn't you say?"

He stood up, paced the small room. "I don't understand. Why would anyone...?"

"Oh, I think you do, Ethan," she said, her gaze unwavering.

He stopped pacing. Looked at her.

"One of them," Ava said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "as they were leaving... he had his comm-link open. I heard him speak to his colleague."

Ethan was very still.

"He said, 'Mr. Caldwell will be pleased. The target is neutralized. Asset Chloe Ashton is secure.'"

The color drained completely from Ethan's face. He looked like he'd been struck. He actually staggered a step back.

Ava watched him, a profound weariness settling over her.

So, he hadn't even bothered to use a codename for himself with his own men. Or perhaps it was a slip. Or perhaps, he just didn't care if she knew.

"Mr. Caldwell," she repeated softly. "That's you, isn't it? Ethan Caldwell. Of the Caldwells. Tech empire. Private security. Global reach."

He didn't deny it. He couldn't.

His carefully constructed facade of the down-on-his-luck drifter had shattered.

Ava closed her eyes.

The betrayal was absolute. Not just a man she'd trusted, but a powerful entity who had crushed her like an insect, all for a girl he mistakenly believed was his childhood savior.

The girl with the cheap, store-bought whistle.

Her own kindness, her impulsive offer of help in that dark alley, had brought this monster into her life.

And he, in turn, had systematically destroyed it.