Chapter 4

Ethan' s grip on my arm was iron. "You defiled her memory," he snarled, his voice low and venomous for only me to hear, while his face showed a mask of public outrage. "You and your sick need for attention."

"I didn't do this, Ethan!" I cried, trying to pull away. "This is insane! How could you even think that?"

But he wasn't listening. His eyes were wild. He was playing to the crowd, to the cameras that were now flashing incessantly. He was cementing his new narrative: Ethan Miller, the grieving artist, betrayed by his unstable and ghoulish ex-wife.

And in that moment, looking at Ava's perfectly feigned shock and Ethan's calculated rage, I understood. Ava hadn't just accused me. She had done it. She had orchestrated this entire, grotesque theater. She had dug up my grandmother's grave, stolen her locket, and framed me for it. It was a move so diabolical, so profoundly sick, that my mind could barely comprehend it. She wasn't just a rival; she was a predator.

"She's lying," I said, my voice shaking as I looked from Ethan's furious face to Ava's triumphant one. "Ethan, she did this. She's the one who's sick."

"Get her out of here," Ethan commanded to the gallery's security guards, who were now closing in. He shoved me hard, and I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the plush carpet. I fell, the humiliation a hot flush across my skin.

He ignored my pleas, my denials. He saw what he wanted to see: a perfect villain for his story. The guards grabbed my arms, hauling me to my feet. Ethan leaned down, his face a mask of contempt.

"You're done, Chloe," he whispered. "You are nothing."

They dragged me out of the gala and into a back room, a sterile white office. Ethan followed, slamming the door behind him. The public performance was over.

"You will stay here until this blows over," he said, his voice flat and cold. "You will not talk to the press. You will not talk to anyone."

"You can't do this," I said, my voice rising with panic. "This is kidnapping."

"Call it protective custody," he sneered. "I'm saving you from yourself."

He locked the door, leaving me alone in the silent, white room. The starkness of it, the sudden isolation, sent a jolt of panic through me. It reminded me of a time in our marriage when, during a particularly bad fight, he had locked me in a closet for hours, telling me I needed a "time out" to consider my "hysteria." The same suffocating fear, the same feeling of being completely powerless, washed over me. My breath hitched, my heart hammered against my ribs, and the room began to swim. The old trauma, buried for years, clawed its way to the surface. I slid down the wall, gasping for air, as the world dissolved into darkness.

I was floating in a dark space, and my grandmother' s voice was echoing around me. "You be strong, Chloe. Don't let him make you feel small." I saw her face, not sick and dying, but as she was in my childhood, smiling and vibrant. Then the image soured, and I saw her grave, the dirt disturbed, the locket gone. A wave of regret and shame washed over me. I had failed her. I had let this happen.

The click of the lock jolted me back to consciousness. The door opened, and Ava stood there, a smug little smirk on her face.

"Feeling better?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern.

I scrambled to my feet, backing away from her. "You did it," I breathed. "You monster. You desecrated her grave."

Ava's smirk widened. "She was just a means to an end. Ethan needed a real tragedy to complete his story, and you, my dear, were becoming boring. I gave him what he needed. I gave him a villain." She stepped into the room, her eyes glittering with a chilling madness. "And now, he's all mine."

She pulled a small, sharp letter opener from the desk. "It's a shame you had to have a complete breakdown and attack me," she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.

Before I could process what she was saying, she dragged the sharp point of the letter opener across her own forearm, creating a deep, bloody gash. She cried out in pain, a sound that was both real and perfectly performed.

Then she threw the letter opener onto the floor at my feet and screamed, a piercing, terrified sound that echoed through the silent gallery. "Help! Somebody help! She's trying to kill me!"