Chapter 2

The world went dark on a Tuesday.

One moment, I was driving home from the studio, the afternoon sun glinting off the windshield. The next, there was a screech of tires, the horrifying crunch of metal, and then, nothing.

I woke up in a hospital room to the smell of antiseptic and the sound of Mark' s frantic voice. I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn't. There was only blackness. A thick, impenetrable void.

"Ava? Baby, can you hear me?"

I felt his hand find mine, his grip desperate.

The doctor' s voice was calm but grave. "It's called cortical blindness, Mr. Thompson. The impact caused trauma to the visual processing centers in her brain. Her eyes are perfectly fine, but her brain can't interpret the signals. It's almost always temporary."

Temporary. The word hung in the air, offering a sliver of hope in the terrifying dark.

Mark clung to it, and to me. He became my shadow, my guide, my constant companion. He read to me, fed me, described the world outside my window with painstaking detail.

"I' m here, Ava," he whispered endlessly, his lips against my hair. "I' ll be your eyes. I' ll never leave you. I swear it."

His devotion was absolute, a fortress against my fear. I depended on him for everything, and he seemed to thrive on it. My complete reliance on him seemed to deepen his love, to solidify the promises he made at our wedding.

Then, six weeks after the accident, I woke up in the middle of the night. For a moment, nothing was different. Still the same suffocating darkness. I blinked, a frustrated, useless gesture.

And then I saw it.

A faint sliver of moonlight filtering through the blinds, tracing a silver line on the opposite wall.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again. The line was still there. It grew sharper, clearer. The fuzzy outline of a chair in the corner emerged from the shadows. The pattern on the duvet cover became visible under my hands.

My sight was back.

Tears of pure, unadulterated relief streamed down my face. I wanted to scream, to wake Mark up and tell him the miracle had happened. I turned to him, my mouth open to say his name.

But I stopped.

He was sitting up in the armchair across the room, his back to me, his phone pressed to his ear. He was whispering, his voice low and urgent.

"I can't, Chloe. She needs me." A pause. "No, of course I miss you. It's just... this is hard. She can't do anything for herself."

My blood ran cold. Chloe. My stepsister.

"I know, I know," Mark continued, his voice shifting, becoming softer, more intimate. "It won't be forever. Once she's better... or once she adjusts... we can figure it out. Just be patient. I love you."

The words "I love you" were a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs. The world I had just regained tilted violently, the joy of sight replaced by a nauseating, world-shattering pain.

It wasn' t just a phone call. It was the tone of his voice. The easy intimacy. The shared promise of a future. A future without me.

My perfect husband. My devoted protector. My stepsister, who always pretended to be my biggest supporter.

The sickness rose in my throat, hot and acidic. I clamped a hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. The beautiful life Mark had built for me wasn't a fortress. It was a cage. And I had been blind to it long before the accident.

In that moment, a new kind of clarity settled over me, colder and sharper than the return of my sight. He thought I was weak, helpless, broken. He and Chloe were counting on it.

A decision formed in the wreckage of my heart. A cold, hard, and necessary decision.

He wanted me to be blind?

Fine. I would be blind.

I lay back down, pulling the covers up to my chin. I forced my breathing to even out, my body to go still. I stared into the darkness of our room, which was no longer dark at all, and I saw everything.

The next morning, my plan began to take shape.

"Mark?" I said, my voice carefully tremulous as he helped me with my breakfast. "I was thinking... I feel so useless. Maybe I could listen to some audiobooks? Or maybe... maybe I could try using one of those screen readers on my phone? Just to feel a little more connected."

He was thrilled. "Of course, baby. That' s a great idea! It shows how strong you are."

He set it up for me, showing me the gestures to navigate the screen, the robotic voice reading out everything my fingers touched. He had no idea he was handing me the key to my own escape.

While he was at work, I spent hours with the phone, the robotic voice a low murmur in my ear. But my eyes were wide open, scanning, reading, moving faster than the voice ever could.

I found Sarah Jenkins' s number. She was a top divorce lawyer, known for her discretion and her toughness. I called her when I knew Mark was in a board meeting.

"Ms. Jenkins," I said, keeping my voice low. "My name is Ava Hayes. I need your help. But no one can know I' ve contacted you. Especially not my husband."

Next, I found an old email from Louis Dubois, the director of the Paris Ballet. He had reached out months before the accident, expressing interest in me for their upcoming season. At the time, Mark had discouraged it. "Paris is so far, Ava. We have everything we need right here."

I wrote a new email, my fingers flying across the screen. I explained there had been a misunderstanding, that I had been dealing with a family emergency, but that I was now available and more interested than ever. I told him I could send him a new audition tape within the week.

I waited until Mark was in the shower, then went into my home studio. I put on my pointe shoes, my ankles a little stiff but my muscle memory intact. I set my phone up to record and I danced. I danced through the heartbreak, the rage, the bitter disillusionment. I poured every ounce of my pain into the performance, and it was the best I had ever danced in my life.

I sent the video to Louis.

Two days later, an email came back.

"Ava, this is breathtaking. The position is yours if you want it. We start rehearsals in one month."

I read the words over and over, my eyes tracing the letters on the screen. Paris. A new company. A new life.

That night, as Mark slept beside me, I slipped out of bed and went to the jewelry box on my dresser. My fingers closed around the heavy platinum of my wedding ring. I didn' t look at it. I didn' t need to.

I walked into the bathroom and, without a sound, dropped it into the back of the toilet tank. The small splash was the only sound in the silent house. It was a baptism. A burial.

The first step in erasing Ava Hayes.