Chapter 3

Ava POV:

A few days later, my phone rings. It's Ethan. His voice is laced with a practiced panic that makes my skin crawl.

"Ava, it's Chloe," he says. "There was an... accident. She fell, hit her head. We're on our way to the emergency room."

A family demonstration that went wrong, I guess. A message sent to a rival that grazed an Associate. I feel a profound, chilling nothing.

"Is she okay?" I ask, my voice a perfect imitation of concern. I've become a very good actress.

"I don't know. I need you to meet me there," he says. "Please." The plea is part of the show. The worried fiancé, turning to his forgotten love in a time of crisis.

I go, because the part I'm playing requires it. I find him in the waiting room, pacing dramatically while Chloe gets examined. He's putting on a show for the nurses, for his Soldiers lurking by the doors, talking about what a dear "friend" she is. He's trying to elevate her status, to make her seem important enough to warrant the future Don's presence.

My phone buzzes. A calendar reminder. "Ethan - Neurology Follow-up." It's a routine appointment for any high-ranking family member, a check on his most important asset: his mind. A mind that's supposed to be damaged.

I walk over to him, keeping my expression soft. "Ethan, you have your neuro appointment in an hour."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Cancel it. I can't leave Chloe. This is an emergency."

Loyalty is everything in our world. The Supremacy of Loyalty isn't a suggestion; it's a commandment. Loyalty to the family, to your role, to the future. By choosing his affair over his duties as an heir, he was spitting on that commandment. He was telling his Soldiers, his father, everyone, that his personal whims were more important than the family itself.

Later, sitting in the hard plastic chair of the waiting room, my phone starts lighting up. A string of texts from an unknown number. Photos. Ethan and Chloe kissing in his car. Ethan and Chloe in a club, her hands all over him. They're timestamped from the last few weeks. It's a deliberate, vicious attack, orchestrated by him and executed by her.

I stare at the images, my face impassive. Then I methodically delete each photo and block the number. It feels like sweeping up shards of glass with my bare hands.

But later, alone in my car, the sterile smell of antiseptic still clinging to my clothes, a memory surfaces. Ethan, two years ago, when I had the flu. He stayed with me for three days, feeding me soup, reading to me, his concern so real, so tender.

Was that an act, too? Was any of it real?

A sharp, twisting pain grips my stomach. That pain isn't for the man he is now, but for the stupid, trusting girl I used to be. The Caged Canary who believed the songs he sang to her.

For the first time since I heard that phone call, a single tear rolls down my cheek. It's hot with rage. It's not a tear for him. It's a funeral pyre for the fool I was.

A week later, Maya drags me to a gallery opening. And of course, they're there. Ethan and Chloe, attached at the hip, his laughter echoing through the sterile white room. He's flaunting her, a direct challenge to his father's authority and my position.

He walks past me to get a drink from the bar. "Red wine for you?" he asks, a reflex, before catching himself. "Oh, sorry. I forgot."

But he hadn't forgotten. Not really. I'm allergic to red wine, a detail buried under seven years of memories he supposedly doesn't have. For a moment, my heart stutters. A stupid, hopeful flutter.

Then he turns back to Chloe, handing her the glass, his face once again a blank slate of polite confusion.

It doesn't matter. A slip of the tongue changes nothing. His manipulation is a game I'm no longer playing.