Chapter 4

Victoria' s dominance in the penthouse grew daily.

She monopolized Ethan' s time, his attention.

Breakfast meetings, late-night strategy sessions, intimate dinners Ava was not invited to.

Ava saw them sometimes, a fleeting glimpse of Victoria laughing, her hand on Ethan' s arm, his eyes soft as he looked at her.

He seemed happy. Genuinely happy.

A happiness Ava had never truly been a part of.

The realization was a dull ache, no longer sharp, just a constant throb.

One afternoon, Ava was in her small guest suite, sketching in her notebook, trying to lose herself in her art.

Victoria walked in without knocking.

Her eyes scanned the room, landing on Ava' s nightstand.

On it sat Ava' s most prized possession: a vintage Leica camera.

It had been her father' s. He' d given it to her just before he died. It was her connection to him, to her passion.

Victoria picked it up, her manicured fingers turning it over.

"Quaint," she commented, her lip curling.

"Please," Ava said, her voice tight. "Put it down. It' s very important to me."

Victoria smiled, a cold, cruel smile.

"Is it now? How important?"

She dangled the camera precariously.

"What do you want?" Ava asked, her heart pounding.

"I want you to understand your place, little photographer," Victoria said softly. "Kneel. Beg me for it. Maybe then I' ll consider giving it back."

Ava stared at her, horrified. The humiliation.

But the camera... her father' s camera.

Tears pricked her eyes. She slowly sank to her knees.

"Please, Victoria. Give it back. It was my father' s."

Victoria watched her, her expression unreadable.

Then, with a sudden, deliberate movement, she let the camera slip from her fingers.

It hit the marble floor with a sickening crack.

Ava cried out, scrambling forward.

The lens was shattered. The body dented.

Victoria gasped, clutching her own hand. "Oh! You pushed me! My wrist!"

Ethan burst into the room, drawn by the commotion.

He saw Victoria cradling her hand, tears in her eyes. He saw Ava on the floor, clutching the broken camera.

"What happened?" Ethan demanded.

"She attacked me!" Victoria cried. "I just came to talk to her, and she got hysterical, pushed me. My wrist... I think it' s broken. And she broke her own camera in her rage!"

Ava looked up, stunned by the blatant lie. "No! That' s not true! She dropped it! She made me kneel!"

Ethan' s face was thunderous. He looked from Victoria' s tear-streaked face to Ava' s distraught one.

He didn' t hesitate.

"Enough, Ava!" he roared. "Your jealousy is getting out of control! Look what you' ve done!"

He rushed to Victoria' s side, examining her hand with concern. "Are you alright, darling?"

He didn' t even glance at Ava or the broken camera.

He sided with Victoria. Blamed Ava.

Callously. Completely.

Later, as "punishment" for her "emotional outburst" and to "give her time to reflect," Ethan, at Victoria' s subtle suggestion, had Ava moved.

Not out of the penthouse, but to a remote, storm-battered guesthouse on his Long Island estate.

Her phone was confiscated.

She was isolated. Alone.

The guesthouse was cold, damp. A storm raged outside, mirroring the tempest in her soul.

She clutched the pieces of her broken Leica, tears streaming down her face.

The last link to her father, destroyed. Her spirit, crushed.

In her misery, a single, bitter thought echoed: "I regret ever loving him. I regret everything."

She might have even said it aloud, her voice lost in the howling wind.

This cold, calculated act of control, this cruel isolation, was the final straw.

Her resolve to leave wasn't just a thought anymore. It was a burning necessity.