Chapter 3

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a heart monitor. The searing pain in my hands had subsided into a deep, throbbing ache, a constant, grim reminder. Liam was sleeping in the chair next to my bed, his head resting on his folded arms. He looked peaceful, almost boyish in his sleep. A wolf in sheep' s clothing.

I watched him, my face a carefully constructed mask of weary confusion. The rage and hatred were a storm inside me, but on the surface, I had to be the placid lake. I was still blind. I was still helpless. That was my only advantage.

He stirred, blinking himself awake. When he saw me looking in his direction, a warm, caring smile spread across his face.

"Hey, you' re awake," he said softly, coming over to the bed. "How are you feeling? You had a rough night. Your hands had some pretty severe spasms."

The lie was so smooth, so practiced. He brushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead.

"Spasms?" I asked, my voice deliberately weak. "I... I don' t remember much. Just that it hurt. A lot."

"I know, my love. I' m sorry you had to go through that," he said, his voice thick with false sympathy. "The nerve damage is causing your muscles to contract violently. I had to straighten them out. Dr. Carter and I were worried you might do permanent damage. It' s for the best, I promise."

He was giving me the script, and I played my part.

"Thank you, Liam," I whispered, letting a tear slip from the corner of my eye. "I don' t know what I' d do without you."

His smile tightened for a fraction of a second. Guilt? Or satisfaction? I couldn' t tell.

I needed to test him. I needed to see how deep the deception went.

"I had a dream about Mom last night," I said, my voice catching. "I miss her so much. I wish... I wish I could visit her. Put some flowers on her grave."

Liam' s expression softened into one of perfect pity. "Oh, Ava. Of course. As soon as you' re strong enough, I' ll take you. We can go next week, after you' re discharged."

He didn' t hesitate. He didn' t flinch at the mention of the woman his mistress had murdered. He just saw an opportunity to play the supportive fiancé.

"And Leo..." I let my voice break completely, turning my head into the pillow. The sobs were real now, dredged up from the fresh grave of my murdered son. "Our baby... Is he really gone, Liam?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me into a gentle hug. His embrace felt like a cage.

"I' m so sorry, Ava," he murmured into my hair. "The trauma was too much for his little body. There was nothing anyone could do."

Nothing anyone could do. He spoke the words as if he were a bystander, not the executioner.

"But we can try again," he said, pulling back to look at me, his eyes full of earnest promise. "Once you' re better, we' ll get married. We' ll have another child. We' ll have a whole family. I know it won' t replace Leo, but... we can build a new future."

My heart twisted. He was offering me a replacement child, a consolation prize, while he was already building a new family with Charlotte and her son. The son he called his only son.

I pushed him away gently, masking the repulsion as grief.

"No," I said, my voice firm but laced with sorrow. "I don' t want another child. Leo was... Leo was our son. There will never be another."

This, I knew, was what he wanted to hear. A child with me would be a complication, a loose thread in the tapestry of his new life. My refusal was a gift to him, and he didn' t even know it.

He misinterpreted my grief as resignation, my pain as weakness. He saw a broken woman, utterly dependent on him. He had no idea that the woman he thought he had destroyed was meticulously cataloging his every lie, his every micro-expression.

"Okay, Ava. Okay," he said, stroking my arm. "Whatever you want. We' ll take it one day at a time. The important thing is that you get better. I' m here for you. Always."

He leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head slightly, and his lips landed on my cheek. It felt like the brand of a hot iron.

He pulled back, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but I quickly covered it.

"I' m just so tired, Liam," I murmured, letting my eyes flutter shut.

"Of course. Get some rest," he said, his voice full of that sickening, false tenderness.

I lay still, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he left the room. The moment the door clicked shut, my eyes opened. The sterile white of the hospital room came into sharp focus.

My hands throbbed in their casts. My womb ached with an emptiness that was more painful than any broken bone.

He thought I was his patient, his victim, his burden. He was wrong.

I was his judge. And the trial had already begun.