Chapter 4

The next few weeks were a blur. Ethan moved through his life on autopilot, the sharp edges of his grief and rage dulled by a constant stream of alcohol. Chloe was always there, managing his life, his home, his emotions. She redecorated the house, erasing every trace of Ava. She filled his schedule with parties and events, surrounding him with a shallow whirlwind of activity that kept him from having to think.

But at night, in the quiet darkness, Ava's face would haunt him. Her calm, broken expression at the party. The way she looked at him as he destroyed her.

One afternoon, he found himself at the hospital for a check-up his company required. He was sitting in the waiting room, nursing a headache, when he overheard two nurses talking at the reception desk.

"...such a shame about Dr. Vance," one nurse said, her voice low. "So brilliant. And to go so fast."

"I know," the other replied, sighing. "I was on duty that night. Her daughter-in-law, the pretty scientist, she was devastated. Apparently, Dr. Vance had a very specific DNR order in her private file. Didn't want to be kept on machines, not even for a second. Said it was undignified."

Ethan froze. The words seemed to echo in the sterile hallway. DNR. A Do Not Resuscitate order.

"Her daughter-in-law was just honoring her wishes," the first nurse continued. "But the son, he didn't know. Came in at the worst possible moment. Caused a huge scene. Poor woman."

The world tilted on its axis. No. It couldn't be. Chloe was there. She saw it. She said Ava was murdering her.

Ethan stood up, his legs unsteady. He walked toward the nurses' station.

"Where are the patient archives?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

The nurses looked at him, startled. "Sir, those are for authorized personnel only."

He didn't wait for an answer. He stormed down the hallway, following the signs for Records. He didn't care about authorization. He had to know.

He found the room and shoved the door open. It was a small, dusty office filled with filing cabinets. He started pulling open drawers, frantically searching for his mother's name. V. Vance.

He found the file. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely open it.

And there it was. A legal document, signed by his mother and witnessed by her lawyer and Director Miles.

"DO NOT RESUSCITATE," it said in bold, unforgiving letters. The text below was a detailed, scientific explanation of why she wanted no extraordinary measures taken, citing the preservation of her dignity and the futility of prolonging suffering in her specific, though unnamed, condition.

He sank to the floor, the document clutched in his hand.

It was true.

Every word the nurse said was true.

Ava hadn't been killing her. She had been honoring her.

And he... what had he done?

A tidal wave of memories crashed over him. The slap. The insults. The public humiliation. The miscarriage. The blood on the floor. Her kneeling, scrubbing the carpet, her hand sliced open and bleeding. Her begging him for the notebooks as he held them over the fire.

"Oh, God," he choked out, a raw, animal sound of pure agony. "What have I done?"

He had called her a murderer. A whore. A monster. He had taken her child from her. He had destroyed her in front of everyone they knew. He had tortured her, systematically and with relish, all while she was protecting his mother's final wish. While she was protecting a secret so important his mother had died for it.

He was the monster.

He stumbled out of the hospital, a man broken. He drove home, the city lights blurring through his tears. He had to find her. He had to beg for her forgiveness, even though he knew he didn't deserve it.

He burst into the house. "Ava!" he called out, a desperate, foolish hope in his heart.

Silence.

The house was cold and empty. Her scent was gone. Her books were gone. Her photos were gone. It was as if she had never existed.

He ran to her old room. On the nightstand, where he had last seen them, were her wedding rings. He picked them up. They were still warm from a stray sunbeam.

He called her phone. Disconnected.

He called her friends. They hadn't heard from her.

He called her old lab. She had resigned.

She was gone. A ghost, just as Director Miles had warned.

He collapsed onto the floor of her empty room, clutching her rings to his chest, and sobbed. He cried for his mother. He cried for the child they had lost. But most of all, he cried for Ava, the woman he had loved more than life itself, and the woman he had destroyed with his own two hands.

Days later, a letter arrived. It had no return address, and the postmark was from a town he'd never heard of. The handwriting was hers.

His hands trembled as he opened it.

Ethan,

If you are reading this, it means I am gone. Don't try to find me. By now, the woman you knew as Ava Riley no longer exists.

I'm not writing to ask for an apology. We are past that. I'm writing to tell you to live. Don't let grief and anger consume you. That's not what your mother would have wanted.

She loved you more than anything. Her work, the secrets she kept, she did it all for a better future. For you.

I have a new life now, a new purpose. I will fulfill the promise I made to her. I have to.

Take care of yourself, Ethan. I hope one day you find peace. In my heart, I have already forgiven you. But I can never go back.

Goodbye.

Ava

The letter was calm, detached, and utterly final. It offered him a forgiveness he hadn't earned and a future he didn't want. The only future he wanted was the one he had burned to the ground.

He read the letter again and again, the paper becoming soft and worn from his tears. She had forgiven him. It was the cruelest cut of all. It left him with no one to hate but himself.