Chapter 3

In a feverish haze, I dreamed of his proposal. We were on a boat at sunset, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. It was disgustingly romantic, a scene from a movie.

"Ava Peterson," he had said, kneeling on one knee. He held out a velvet box. "I love you more than anything."

His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes shining. "I'm a negotiator. My job is to be impartial, to never let emotion cloud my judgment. But with you, I break all my own rules. You are my only weakness and my greatest strength."

He slipped the ring on my finger. It was a simple, elegant diamond that caught the last rays of the sun. He held my hand as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

"I swear, I will protect you with my life."

Was any of it real? Or was he just negotiating then, too? Saying what he needed to say to close the deal, to secure his perfect cover story.

A sharp pain in my side pulled me from the dream. The fever was worse. My body ached, and my throat was parched. The room was still dark.

The bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall. Harrison stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. He looked frantic.

"Ava! Oh my god, Ava, I'm so sorry."

He rushed to the bed and fumbled with the knot on my wrists. His hands were shaking. "I got held up. Brooke had an emergency. I didn't mean to leave you for so long."

He freed my hands and gathered me into his arms. He was babbling, a stream of apologies and excuses that meant nothing. He carried me out of the house, his steps hurried and panicked.

"I'm so sorry, please, don't leave me," he kept repeating, his voice cracking.

I woke up in a hospital room. Again. The scent of antiseptic was becoming the backdrop of my life. I was trapped in a cycle of his cruelty and his panicked, performative remorse.

He was asleep in the chair next to my bed, his head lolled to one side. Even in sleep, he looked like a hero, his features handsome and noble. A complete and utter fraud.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He saw me looking at him and immediately rushed to my side, grabbing my hand.

"Ava, you're awake."

I snatched my hand back. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through my wounded side. I winced.

"Don't move," he said, his voice full of concern. He tried to steady me. "You'll hurt yourself."

I slapped his hand away. The sound echoed in the quiet room.

He didn' t flinch. He just looked at me, his eyes filled with a pain that almost looked real. "Go on," he said softly. "I deserve it. Hit me again."

He took my hand and placed it on his cheek. "Please, Ava. Do whatever you need to do. Just don't say you want to leave me."

"I don't want to see you," I said, my voice flat. I was too tired for anger. I just wanted him gone.

"It was Brooke," he said, launching into another prepared speech. "She had a panic attack. A PTSD episode from the hostage situation. I had to be there for her."

He was lying. I could see it in the way his eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. He was with her. All night.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at the bruises his tie had left on my wrists. They were a dark, ugly purple. A physical reminder of his "love."

"Why, Harrison?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Why did the man I married disappear?"

He flinched. "It's all because of her," he said, his voice turning venomous. "She's trying to drive a wedge between us. She's jealous of what we have."

He was blaming her now. Blaming anyone but himself.

"I'm tired," I said, turning away from him. "I need to rest. Please leave."

"I'm not leaving you," he said, his voice stubborn. "I'm going to stay right here and watch over you."

I left the hospital the next day, Harrison trailing behind me like a shadow. He was smothering me with attention, a desperate, cloying attempt to make up for his cruelty. He cooked, he cleaned, he sat by my side, talking endlessly about our future.

I caught him once, hiding in the pantry, his voice a low, urgent murmur on the phone. "I'll call you back," he whispered. "She's right outside."

He was still talking to Brooke. The thought sent a cold wave of pain through me. It was a physical ache, a deep, internal bruise.

A few days later, a moving truck pulled up across the street. Brooke Shelton, looking frail and beautiful, stepped out of a car. Harrison had moved her into the house opposite ours.

He ladled half of the soup he had made for me into a container. "Brooke isn't feeling well," he explained, avoiding my eyes. "It's a professional courtesy. We have to keep our assets in good condition."

I watched him from the window as he crossed the street. He looked back at our house, a fleeting expression of guilt on his face. But when Brooke opened her door, his face transformed. The smile that reached his eyes, the one he never gave me, was reserved only for her.

The pain was so sharp, so intense, it was almost breathtaking. This was my life. Watching the man I loved love someone else, right in front of my eyes.

He planned a romantic evening on a chartered yacht. "Just the two of us," he promised. "To get back to how things were."

I knew it was another lie, but I went along with it. I was tired of fighting.

As we were about to leave, Brooke appeared at our door. She was wearing a stunning white dress that clung to her figure.

"Harrison, darling," she said, pouting playfully. "My car won't start. Are you two going out? Don't tell me I'm interrupting a date."

"Of course not," Harrison said, his voice smooth as silk. "We were just heading out. Why don't you come with us?"

I just stood there, a silent, invisible third wheel in my own life.

"Are you sure Ava doesn't mind?" Brooke asked, her eyes flicking to me with a hint of triumph.

I gave a tight, meaningless smile. "The more the merrier."

What was one more lie? What was one more humiliation? I was just a placeholder. An obstacle. A prop in the grand romance of Harrison Phelps and Brooke Shelton.