Chapter 2

The house felt contaminated. Every surface seemed coated in a thin film of lies. I left the hospital early, against medical advice, because I couldn't stand the thought of Harrison showing up again with his fake apologies.

I didn't answer his calls. The phone buzzed incessantly on the counter, a frantic, desperate sound. I let it go to voicemail, then blocked his number.

Systematically, I began to erase him. I gathered every photo of us together, every gift he'd ever given me, every piece of his clothing left in the closet, and stuffed it all into black garbage bags. It was a cleansing. A bitter exorcism.

With each item, a memory surfaced. A ski trip to Aspen where he smiled for the camera but complained about the cold the moment we were alone. Our anniversary dinner where he spent the entire time texting under the table. They were all hollow moments I had desperately tried to fill with my own love.

I found the framed photo from our "wedding" day. We stood under an oak tree, his arm around me, both of us smiling. His smile didn't reach his eyes. I had always known that, deep down. I just hadn't wanted to see it. I smashed the frame against the edge of the kitchen counter. The glass shattered, and I dropped the broken pieces into the trash.

The front door burst open. Harrison stood there, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild. He looked nothing like the calm, collected hero on TV.

"Ava! Why weren't you answering your phone?" he demanded, striding towards me.

He looked around the room, at the bare walls and the garbage bags full of our life together. Panic flickered in his eyes.

"What are you doing? Where are all our pictures?"

I didn't need to answer his calls because there was nothing left to say. He had said it all when he chose Brooke. He had said it all with the fraudulent license. He had said it all when he dismissed our dead child.

"Why did you leave the hospital?" he asked, his voice a mixture of anger and fear. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight. "I was terrified. I thought something had happened to you."

His touch was repulsive. It felt like being handled by a stranger, a dangerous one.

"Let go of me, Harrison," I said, my voice dangerously calm.

He noticed the shattered frame on the floor. His face hardened. "I see. You're throwing a tantrum. You're angry, and you're destroying things."

He shook his head, his expression turning to one of condescending pity. "I told you, Ava. The situation was complex. Saving Brooke was a matter of national security. Her knowledge is invaluable."

"Stop talking," I said, interrupting his stream of self-serving lies.

He didn't listen. He never listened.

"I know this is hard for you to understand, but..."

I had been a fool, believing his grand pronouncements and empty promises. I had built my life on a foundation of lies, and now the whole structure had come crashing down.

"You've changed, Ava," he said, his voice laced with accusation. "You used to be so understanding."

I'm not changed, I thought. I'm awake.

"I love you," he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "I can't live without you, Ava. Don't do this."

He pulled me into his arms, his embrace suffocating. He was trying to use force, to use his physical presence to overwhelm me, as if that could erase the years of deception. He carried me into the bedroom and threw me onto the bed.

"You're not leaving me," he snarled, pinning me down. He used one of his neckties to bind my wrists to the headboard. The silk was a cruel mockery of intimacy.

I stared at him, my shock turning to a cold, burning rage. "Are you insane?"

"I'm insane without you," he said, his eyes wild. He was trying to frame his violence as passion, as a testament to his love. It was just another manipulation.

He leaned down and kissed me. It was a brutal, punishing kiss, full of anger and possession. My stomach turned. A wave of nausea washed over me. This man, who I had once loved with my whole being, now felt like a violation.

I turned my head and bit his lip, hard. He recoiled, a hand flying to his mouth, a drop of blood on his chin.

"Get out!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. "Get out of my house!"

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed. The wildness was replaced by a familiar, focused intensity. It was Brooke. It was always Brooke.

"I have to take this," he said, his voice once again calm. He walked out of the room, leaving me tied to the bed. "I'll be back. We'll sort this out."

He left. The front door closed. The house fell silent.

He didn't come back.

I was alone, tied to a bed in a house filled with ghosts and lies. I struggled against the tie, but he had tied the knot with expert precision. It only tightened, cutting into my wrists.

My side, where the bullet had torn through me, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. A fever was starting to set in. Hunger gnawed at my stomach.

Hours passed. The sun set, plunging the room into darkness. He had left me here. He had chosen her, again, and left me to suffer. The promise to "sort this out" was just another empty phrase, another lie to keep me placid while he ran to her side.

I curled into a ball, the pain in my side sharpening with every movement. Hunger, pain, and a chilling despair settled over me. He had not just betrayed me. He had abandoned me, completely and utterly.