Chapter 4 4

Chloe, naturally, was Ethan's first concern upon her recovery. I saw it on her Instagram feed: a stunning photo of them both, wrapped in furs under a sky ablaze with the Northern Lights. "He knows how to heal my soul ✨," the caption read. He had taken her to see the aurora borealis, a trip I had spent years planning for our tenth anniversary, a plan I'd shared with him in a hopeful whisper just months ago. He didn't ask about me, didn't thank me for the blood. It was as if my contribution, my presence, was simply an expected utility.

I watched the picture on the small screen in my temporary apartment, a detached observer to my own erasure. I was leasing the place, a temporary measure before my move to Austin, and spending my days quietly preparing for my departure from New York.

Before I could fully sever ties with Reed Innovate, however, there was one final obligation: a series of handover meetings to ensure a smooth transition. I was in the boardroom, explaining the Q4 strategic forecast to my nervous-looking successors, when a courier arrived with a package addressed to me.

"I wasn't expecting anything," I said, cautiously taking the small, plain box.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black tissue paper, was a dead bird, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Tucked beneath it was a single, typed note: "BITCHES WHO GET IN THE WAY END UP LIKE THIS."

A collective gasp went through the room. My team looked at me with a mixture of horror and pity. It was a crude, terrifying threat.

He returned to New York a week later, looking pale but determinedly cheerful. He found me at the apartment, packing. He was oblivious to the suitcases, the near-empty rooms.

"Ava! There you are," he said, relief flooding his voice. "I've been so worried. Chloe was an absolute wreck after that paparazzi incident. But she's better now. And I wanted to make things up to you. For everything."

He presented me with a lavish gift: a rare, first-edition collection of classic literature I'd once mentioned admiring.

A peace offering. A superficial gesture to smooth over a chasm of betrayal.

"Thank you, Ethan," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "It's lovely."

I accepted the heavy, leather-bound volumes, the irony a bitter taste in my mouth.

He beamed, misinterpreting my polite acceptance as forgiveness.

That evening, the news broke. Not of a kidnapping, but of a dramatic rescue. Ethan Reed, heroic CEO, had saved Chloe Vahn from an apparent deranged stalker who had cornered her in a downtown parking garage.

At a hastily arranged press conference outside the garage, Ethan, his arm protectively around a tearful Chloe, made a stunning declaration.

"This monster," he gestured vaguely towards the building, "has been terrorizing the woman I love. But he was mistaken. He thought he could hurt me by hurting Chloe."

He paused, his gaze finding a specific news camera.

"But the truth is, while I care for Chloe deeply, the woman I truly love, the woman I would die for, the woman I will marry, is Ava Miller."

Chloe gasped, a flawless performance of shock and heartbreak.

The press erupted.

I watched it on a hotel TV, a cold understanding dawning.

He was using me.

Using my name, our supposed love, as a shield, a decoy.

Chloe was the prize.

I was the expendable pawn, publicly declared to throw the real threat – whoever that might be – off Chloe's scent.

My mind flashed to the dead bird, the anonymous threat. This wasn't just a random act of intimidation. It all clicked into a horrifying pattern.

He wasn't just using me as a shield.

He was painting a target on my back.