Chapter 3

The next morning, Ava packed a single suitcase. She took only her essentials, leaving behind the ghost of the woman she used to be. She moved into the dormitory provided by her news agency, a small, sterile room that felt more like a home than the apartment she had just left.

Her colleagues noticed the change immediately.

"Ava, you moved into the dorm? Is everything okay with you and Mark?" a fellow reporter, Chloe, asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Just focusing on work," Ava replied, offering a tight-lipped smile. "Big assignment coming up."

The news of her split, however unspoken, traveled fast. The office was a hotbed of gossip.

"I never liked that Sarah woman," Chloe muttered to her later by the coffee machine. "She always had that wounded-bird look. The kind that makes men feel like heroes for simply existing."

Another colleague chimed in. "My cousin lives in their building. Says Detective Johnson is over at the widow's apartment more than his own. People are talking."

Ava felt a pang of something-not pain, but a dull ache of foolishness. She had been so blind, wrapped up in her love and her career, refusing to see the truth that was so obvious to everyone else.

"It's my business," Ava said, cutting the conversation short. "I need to finish this report."

She buried herself in her work, the familiar rhythm of research and writing a soothing balm on her raw nerves.

A week later, just as she was leaving the office, she saw him. Mark was standing by the entrance, his face a thundercloud.

He strode towards her, grabbing her arm. "What the hell is this, Ava? You move out without a word? You're making a fool of me."

His anger was palpable, but it didn't scare her anymore. She just felt tired.

She pulled her arm from his grasp. "Let go of me, Mark. I'm living here so I can focus on my work."

"Work?" He scoffed. "You're running away. Hiding."

"I have nothing to hide," she said, her voice as cold as the winter air.

His expression softened slightly, a clumsy attempt at conciliation. "Ava, come home. We can talk this out. I know I've been... distracted. But Sarah needs me. She' s the widow of my partner. It's my duty to look after her. I need you to be more understanding."

Understanding. The word was a slap in the face. How much more understanding could she be? Understanding that her needs came second? Understanding that her pain was an inconvenience?

"I'm tired of being understanding," she said, turning to walk away.

"Ava, please!"

A new voice joined the fray. Sarah Hayes had appeared as if from nowhere, her face pale and tear-streaked. She rushed to Ava's side, grabbing her hand.

"Ava, don't be angry with Mark," she pleaded, her voice loud enough for the passersby to hear. "It' s all my fault. I' ve been too much of a burden on him. I'll leave, I promise. I won't come between you two."

Her performance was flawless. The sobbing widow, the noble sacrifice. People were starting to stop and stare, their faces a mixture of curiosity and sympathy for Sarah.

The whispers started. "That's his wife? She looks so cold." "Poor woman, her husband died and now this."

Ava felt trapped, the eyes of the crowd pressing in on her.

Mark rushed to Sarah's side, pulling her into a protective embrace. "It's not your fault, Sarah," he said, his voice ringing with conviction. "Don't say that. I promised David I would take care of you, and I will. I'll never let you be alone."

The words echoed in Ava's ears. A promise. He had made promises to her, too. On their wedding day, he had promised to love and cherish her, in sickness and in health. Where was that promise now?

Sarah, nestled in Mark's arms, looked over at Ava, a flicker of triumph in her tear-filled eyes. "Thank you, Mark," she whispered. "You're the only one I can count on."

Ava had had enough.

"Let go of him," Ava said, her voice sharp and clear, cutting through Sarah's sobs.

Sarah flinched.

"You seem to forget, Sarah," Ava continued, taking a step forward, "that he is my husband. The man who shares my bed. The man who holds me at night." She let the words hang in the air, watching the color drain from Sarah's face.

"And you," she said, turning to the crowd. "You see a crying widow. I see a woman who wears the perfume my husband bought her, who eats the meals my husband cooks for her, while his own wife's hands are raw from work."

She held up her hands, showing the red, chapped skin. The crowd murmured, their expressions shifting from sympathy to suspicion.

Sarah' s face turned a blotchy red. "That's... that's not true!"

"Isn't it?" Ava pressed. "Tell them about the expensive French hand cream, Sarah. The one Mark bought for you."

Sarah looked trapped, her eyes darting around for an escape. Then, with a theatrical gasp, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she went limp, collapsing into Mark's arms.

"Sarah!" Mark cried out in panic.

He scooped her up, his face a mask of terror and fury. He shot Ava a look of pure hatred before turning and rushing towards his car, leaving Ava standing alone in the middle of a confused and whispering crowd.