Chapter 2

The silence that followed my declaration was thick with shock.

They stared at me as if I'd grown a second head.

Mark was the first to recover, his face twisting into a sneer of disbelief and pity. He took a step towards me, his hand raised as if to pat my shoulder in a condescending gesture of comfort.

"Ava, listen to yourself," he said, his voice dripping with false concern. "You're not well. The grief is getting to you. Let's not make a scene."

He reached for my arm.

In one fluid motion, I grabbed his wrist.

My grip was like steel. His eyes widened in surprise, then pain.

I twisted.

A sharp, satisfying crack echoed in the cavernous living room, followed by his high-pitched scream.

He crumpled to the floor, clutching his broken wrist, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Chloe shrieked, a genuine sound of fear this time, not her practiced sorrow.

My father bellowed, "AVA! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

I ignored them both. I crouched down beside Mark, my face inches from his. He flinched away, terror in his eyes.

"A scene?" I whispered, my voice calm. "You wanted to avoid a scene? But I think we're just getting started."

I stood up and turned my attention to Chloe, who was hiding behind my father like a frightened child.

"Now, where were we?" I mused aloud. "Ah, yes. The frame-up."

I walked over to the ornate mahogany desk in the corner of the room, the one my father used for his most important work. On it sat a sleek, corporate laptop. My laptop. The one they had brought back from my office.

"Let's see," I said, tapping the trackpad. The screen flickered to life. "I believe the accusation was corporate espionage. Selling company secrets to our biggest rival."

I looked at Chloe. "A very serious crime. Very damaging to my reputation. You must have been so scared for the company when you 'discovered' the evidence."

Her face was white. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, let me help you remember," I said sweetly. I picked up a delicate letter opener from the desk. "You planted fake emails, didn't you? And a few encrypted files on a hidden partition. Made it look like I was selling Dad's development plans. Very clever. A little cliché, but effective."

I advanced on her, the letter opener held loosely in my hand.

She backed away, stumbling into a velvet armchair.

"Stay away from me! You're insane!" she cried.

"Am I?" I leaned in, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or am I just playing your game? You wanted to frame me? Fine. Let's really give them something to talk about."

I grabbed her hand, prying her fingers open. I pressed the handle of the letter opener into her palm.

"Now, you're going to take this," I said, my voice dangerously soft, "and you're going to try and stab me with it. When Dad tries to stop you, you'll cry and say I drove you to it."

Her eyes were wide with terror. "No! I won't!"

"Yes, you will," I said, my grip tightening. "Because if you don't, I will use it on you myself. And I won't be as gentle as you would."

Mark, still on the floor, was whimpering. "Dad, do something! She's crazy!"

My father, who had been frozen in a state of stunned rage, finally moved. He lunged at me, his face purple.

"You let go of your sister this instant!" he roared.

I released Chloe and spun to face him, a picture of wounded innocence. It was my turn to act.

"Dad, she tried to attack me!" I cried, my voice mimicking Chloe's trembling tone perfectly. "She had a letter opener! She said I'd ruined her life!"

My father stopped dead, his brain struggling to process the scene. Chloe, holding the letter opener with a shaking hand, looked like the aggressor. I looked like the terrified victim.

It was a perfect, farcical reversal of her own plot.

Chloe dropped the letter opener. It clattered on the hardwood floor.

"No... no, that's not what happened," she stammered, looking between me and her father. "She's lying! She's the one who..."

Her words trailed off as she saw the doubt in my father's eyes. For the first time, his absolute faith in her was shaken.

He looked from her to the letter opener, then to Mark whimpering on the floor, and finally to me.

He was confused. And a confused man is a weak man.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, his voice lacking its earlier force.

"She's lost her mind, Mr. Smith," Mark gasped from the floor. "She broke my wrist! Call the police! Call a doctor!"

My father's gaze hardened again as he looked at me. The confusion was replaced by a familiar coldness. It was easier for him to believe I was insane than to believe he had been fooled.

"You," he said, pointing at me. "You are out of control."

He took a step and, without warning, his hand shot out and he slapped me across the face.

The blow was hard. It snapped my head to the side, and a sharp, stinging pain erupted on my cheek.

The world went quiet for a second.

In that moment of impact, it wasn't my pain I felt.

It was Ava's.

A flood of memories, not mine, but hers, washed over me. A lifetime of them.

Her, as a little girl, showing her father a drawing, only for him to wave it away without a glance.

Her, as a teenager, winning a national debate championship, only to be told by her father that it was a "distraction from more serious pursuits."

Her, graduating top of her class from law school, and her father's only comment being, "Good. Now you can be useful to the company."

Her, finding emails between Mark and Chloe, her heart breaking in silence because she knew no one would believe her.

Her, overhearing her father tell Chloe, "You're the daughter I should have had. Not that cold, ambitious machine."

And the final memory. Her, in this very house, after the frame-up was revealed, being slapped by her father in this exact same way. The humiliation. The finality of the betrayal. The utter hopelessness.

That was the moment she had truly died. Her spirit had shattered, leaving behind only a husk and a single, burning wish.

Make them pay.

The pain on my cheek subsided, replaced by an icy calm. The last vestiges of Ava's sorrow and weakness were burned away in the fire of that slap.

All that remained was her mission. My mission.

I slowly turned my head back to face my father. I touched my cheek, my expression unreadable.

"You shouldn't have done that," I said, my voice devoid of all emotion.

The echo of Ava's pain was gone. Her consciousness had finally let go, entrusting everything to me. She had sacrificed her last bit of self to fuel my resolve.

I was no longer just a new soul in a borrowed body.

I was Ava's Vengeance.