Chapter 2

The penthouse apartment, once a symbol of my future with Ethan, now felt like a cage I was about to escape. The remnants of the disastrous engagement party – a discarded corsage, a half-empty guest book – were ugly reminders. I ignored them.

My mother, bless her, was frantic.

"Ava, what have you done? The scandal! Your reputation!"

She paced the marble floor, her face a mask of worry. She believed her husband, my father, the legendary CIA Director, died in a tragic accident. She didn't know the "official story" was a lie, or the true depth of the world he, and by extension, I, moved in.

"Mother," I said, my voice calm, trying to soothe her. "It's better this way. Trust me."

"Trust you? Ava, he humiliated you! And that woman..."

I held up a hand.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is what I do now."

She stopped pacing, looking at me, searching my face.

"You're so... cold. It's not like you."

No, it wasn't like the old Ava. That Ava was dead.

"I'm fine, Mother. Really."

I needed her to believe it, to not worry. Her worry was a distraction I couldn't afford.

I walked to the antique desk in the corner, my father' s desk. From a locked drawer, I retrieved a small, unassuming burn phone. Old tech, but untraceable. My father had taught me well.

"I have things to handle," I told her gently. "Please, just give me some space."

She nodded slowly, still uncertain, but some of the panic left her eyes. She trusted my judgment, even when she didn't understand.

Once she left the room, I dialed the number. It connected on the first ring, no greeting, just silence.

"This is Ava Carter," I said. "I'm calling in the standing agreement. My father's contingency."

A pause, then a gruff, familiar voice. "Acknowledged. Await instructions."

The line went dead.

President Thompson. My father's protégé. The man whose life I'd saved years ago, an event known to only a handful of people. He owed me. More than that, he respected my father' s legacy, and by extension, me. He was my lifeline. My "one person above."

With that call made, a sliver of the ice around my heart seemed to crack, not with warmth, but with the grim satisfaction of a plan set in motion.

Next, I dealt with Ethan. Or rather, his things.

I systematically went through the apartment. His clothes, his books, his awards, every trace of him. I packed them into expensive luggage, the kind he favored. I didn't burn them. That was too emotional. This was a transaction, a severing.

I called his assistant.

"Mr. Prescott' s belongings are packed. Please arrange for their collection immediately."

Click. No goodbyes, no explanations. Just efficiency.

By dawn, the apartment felt lighter, emptier. Cleansed. I stood by the window, watching the sun rise over Washington D.C. My city. My battleground. Ethan and Izzy thought they had won. They had no idea what was coming.