Chapter 3

The hospital discharged me the next day. My steps were unsteady, my body a roadmap of pain. Ethan and Chloe were waiting, their faces masks of indifference.

"Get in the car, Ava," Ethan commanded. "We' re going to visit my parents." His tone hinted at a new form of torture.

The drive was an exercise in silent agony. Ethan and Chloe sat in the front, their hands intertwined, whispering sweet nothings. Chloe would occasionally glance back, a smirk playing on her lips. Each shared laugh, each tender touch, was a fresh stab.

We arrived at a grand, imposing mausoleum, the Knight family memorial. Ethan led me to a path, not paved with smooth stones, but with sharp, jagged gravel. Miles of it, glinting cruelly in the sunlight.

"Kneel," he ordered. "Crawl. For every step my father suffered because of yours, for every tear my mother shed."

He and Chloe got back into the car, following slowly behind me as I began the torturous pilgrimage. The gravel tore at my knees, my hands. Blood mingled with the dust. Their laughter, carried on the breeze, was a soundtrack to my suffering. Each movement was an agony, but I kept going, fueled by a strange, detached determination.

Finally, I reached the mausoleum, collapsing at the marble steps. Ethan and Chloe emerged from the car, looking fresh and unbothered. He stood before the cold stone, Chloe at his side.

"Mother, Father," Ethan said, his voice resonating with false piety. "I' ve avenged you. And I' ve found my true love." He kissed Chloe tenderly. "Ava Miller' s family destroyed ours. Now, she understands our pain."

He turned to me, my body screaming, my spirit numb. "Bow your head," he commanded. I did. "Good girl." He and Chloe then got back into the car and drove away, leaving me there, a broken offering at the altar of his vengeance.

The journey back to the estate was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Rain began to fall, cold and relentless, mirroring the desolation in my soul. I stumbled through the gates, a soaked, bleeding wreck.

Ethan was in the study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He saw me, and for a fleeting second, I thought I saw a flicker of something – shock? Pity? – in his eyes. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his customary coldness.

"You look like hell, Ava," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Good. Now, get cleaned up. You have a party to plan."

My blood ran cold. "A party?"

"Chloe' s birthday," he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "And I want it to be perfect. Exactly like that dream wedding you once described to me. Every detail. Don' t disappoint me."

The violation was profound. My most cherished, private dreams, twisted into a weapon against me. He offered me a glass of water, a gesture so out of character it felt like another taunt. I ignored it. I worked through the night, the physical pain a dull counterpoint to the agony in my heart. The decorations, the menu, the music – all echoes of a future that would never be mine. Each choice was a fresh wound.