Chapter 4

My lifeline came a day later.

A call from New Orleans. My mom, Sarah.

"Ava, honey, you don't sound right. What's going on? Tell me the truth."

Her voice, usually so cheerful, was laced with concern. She knew me too well.

I broke down. The words tumbled out – the pain, the neglect, Brooke' s miraculous recovery, the lies about money, the dog.

She listened patiently, a soft hum of sympathy on the line.

"Oh, baby," she said when I finished, her voice thick with anger on my behalf. "That's... that's monstrous."

"I don't know what to do, Mom."

"Yes, you do," she said firmly. "You pack a bag. You get on the first flight to New Orleans. You come home. David and I will take care of you. You can recover here, properly."

Hope, a tiny, fragile bird, fluttered in my chest.

"And Ava," she added, "there's a jazz ensemble here, some friends of David's. They're looking for a cellist. A good one."

An escape. A chance.

"Okay, Mom," I whispered. "Okay."

Ethan came home that evening, his usual charismatic self, though his eyes looked tired.

He was trying to be attentive, asking about my day, offering to make dinner.

A performance of remorse, or perhaps just an attempt to smooth things over.

As he reached for a glass in the kitchen cabinet, his sleeve rode up.

On his wrist, a new tattoo. Small, black, a stylized letter "B."

My breath caught.

Years ago, on a whim, we' d gotten tiny matching tattoos. A musical eighth note. His was on the same spot on his wrist.

The "B" was stark, bold. It covered the note completely.

"What's that?" I asked, my voice flat.

He glanced down, then quickly pulled his sleeve back. "Oh, this? It's for Bravery. For... for getting through tough times."

His eyes wouldn't meet mine.

Bravery. Or Brooke.

The musical note, our symbol, was gone. Erased. Replaced.

Another piece of our shared history, another piece of me, discarded.

The disillusionment was complete. He wasn't just lying; he was actively rewriting our past, excising me from it.

The next day, Brooke appeared at the apartment.

She carried a small suitcase.

"Ethan, darling, Chloe said it was okay if I stayed for a bit? My place is being fumigated, such a bore."

She didn' t even look at me.

Ethan, who had just been assuring me he wanted to "focus on us," immediately rushed to her side.

"Of course, Brooke. Make yourself at home. Ava won't mind, will you, honey?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He was already taking Brooke's suitcase, leading her towards the guest room.

My guest room. My space. Invaded.

He prioritized her comfort, her convenience, over my feelings, over the sanctity of our home.

The bias was blatant, sickening.

Brooke settled in quickly, treating the apartment like her personal hotel.

She' d "confide" in Chloe, loud enough for me to hear, about how I' d "bullied" her in college over that orchestra solo.

"She was always so competitive, so ruthless," Brooke would sigh dramatically. "It really damaged my confidence for years."

Chloe, who once fiercely defended me against Brooke, now just nodded sympathetically.

Later, Chloe approached me, her expression troubled.

"Ava, maybe you should try to see Brooke's side. She's been through a lot."

My best friend. Siding with my tormentor.

The betrayal cut deep, another layer of pain.

Brooke then cornered me in the kitchen, a sly smile on her face.

"It' s so good we can all be mature about this, Ava. Ethan feels so much guilt over how you apparently... misunderstood things back then. He just wants to make amends to me."

Her words were like little drops of poison.

The stress, the constant psychological torment, was unbearable.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest, my breath catching.

My body was screaming, even if my voice couldn't.

Ethan found me pale and shaking.

"Ava, what's wrong now?" he asked, his tone impatient. "Can't you just try to get along with Brooke? She' s trying. You' re being so unforgiving."

Gaslighting again. My pain was an inconvenience to him.

He sighed, then softened his expression, a practiced move.

"Look, I know this is hard. How about this? I'll find us a new place. Smaller, maybe, until the company is fully back on its feet, but fresh. A new start for us."

A superficial offer. A distraction.

His "kindness" was conditional, a tool to manage me.

I knew then, with chilling certainty, that there was no "us" left to save.