Chapter 5

Ava POV:

I woke to the insistent, rhythmic beeping of an IV pump and the smell of stale air. My head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache behind my eyes. I was in a different room than before, smaller, with no windows. The walls were padded, a horrifying realization dawning on me. They had moved me to psychiatric observation.

A nurse stood talking to an orderly just outside my door, their voices muffled but clear enough to hear snippets.

"They just cleaned out her father's room," the orderly said. "Poor man. Went so fast."

"Yeah," the nurse replied, her voice tinged with pity. "Dr. Luna signed the death certificate. Acute cardiac arrest. Just hours after his surgery. Tragic."

My breath hitched. Acute cardiac arrest. A lie. Another cover-up. They had killed him. They had truly killed him. And Kimberli, the monster, signed his death certificate.

"And they removed all his personal effects too," the orderly continued. "Just like the husband wanted. Said he didn't want any 'sentimental clutter' around."

My father's things. His watch, his old leather-bound books, the small drawing I gave him as a child. All of it gone. Erased. Chris. He was systematically wiping my father from existence.

"And that poor Mrs. Blevins," the nurse added, her voice dropping. "Heard she went ballistic. Tried to attack Dr. Luna. Completely unhinged, they say."

Unstable. Unhinged. The narrative was already set. I was the crazy wife, mourning her father, who had lashed out at the kind, innocent doctor. My blood boiled.

A guard entered my room, carrying a tray of bland food. His eyes were cold, indifferent. "Eat up," he grunted, placing the tray on a small table. "The doctor will be in to see you later."

"My father," I whispered, my voice cracked and dry. "Is he... is he really gone?"

The guard paused, a flicker of something in his eyes – discomfort, perhaps? He shifted his weight. "He passed away last night. Acute cardiac arrest." He recited the official line, then quickly left, unable to meet my gaze.

He was gone. My father. My gentle, kind father who had always believed in me, always supported me, always loved me unconditionally. He was a victim of their cruelty, a pawn in their sadistic game. Every memory of him flashed through my mind: his booming laugh, the way he'd ruffle my hair, his steady hand guiding me, his wisdom comforting me.

"Ava, my dear," he'd said to me just months ago, his eyes twinkling, "you have a good heart. Don't let anyone dim your light. And sometimes, even the brightest light can be too brilliant for others to appreciate. Don't let their blindness make you doubt your own shine." He had warned me. He had seen Chris for what he was, beneath the charming facade. But I, blinded by love, had dismissed his subtle warnings as overprotective fatherly concerns. My foolishness had cost him his life.

A choked sob escaped my lips, then another, until I was wracked with earth-shattering grief. Tears streamed down my face, hot and endless, carving paths through the dried blood on my temple. My body shook with the force of it, a raw, primal scream trapped in my chest. I buried my face in my hands, wishing I could disappear, wishing I could undo everything. The pain was unbearable, a gaping wound in my soul.

Days blurred into a haze of sorrow and forced sedatives. Then, one morning, the door opened, and I was told I could leave. They handed me a small plastic bag with the few belongings I had on me. My phone was gone. My wedding ring was gone from my finger. It was as if I had never existed.

I walked out of the hospital, blinking in the harsh sunlight, a ghost of my former self. My body was weak, but my resolve was solid as steel. My father would have his justice. I would ensure it.

The first thing I did was arrange for my father's cremation, a quiet, somber affair. No Chris. No Kimberli. Just me, saying goodbye to the only true love I had ever known. Then, I went to my home with Chris, or rather, what used to be our home.

It was empty. Stripped bare. All my personal belongings were gone. My clothes, my books, my photographs. Even the small trinkets I had collected over the years. Nothing remained. The only thing left was an empty shell of a house, and an eerie silence that screamed of erasure.

I pulled out my old laptop from a hidden emergency box and connected to the internet. The first thing I saw was Chris's Instagram. A recent post: a picture of him and Kimberli, sun-kissed and smiling, on a yacht in the Mediterranean. "Finally, true happiness," the caption read. My wedding ring was prominently displayed on Kimberli's finger.

My blood ran cold. He had annulled our marriage. And married Kimberli. How long? How brazen? How could I have been so blind? My heart, already shattered, splintered into a million more pieces. But this time, there was no pain, only a chilling void. My love for Chris Bell was not just dead; it had never existed. It was a cruel illusion, a nightmare from which I had finally awakened.

A cold, calculated plan began to form in my mind, precise and deadly. He thought he had taken everything. He thought I was broken. He was wrong. He had only forged me into a weapon, sharpened by grief and betrayal. I had built Bell Dynamics with him. I knew its every secret, every weakness. And I held the key to its destruction, thanks to my father's foresight. Our prenuptial agreement.

I walked to my father's old study, a room Chris rarely entered. Behind a loose panel in the bookshelf, I found the heavy, leather-bound folder. The prenup. It stipulated that in the event of a divorce, and under certain conditions, I retained a significant portion of Bell Dynamics shares. Shares I had contributed directly through my family' s initial investment.

With trembling hands, I retrieved the document. It was old, predating Chris's success, a relic from a time when he was just a struggling entrepreneur and I, a foolish woman in love. But it was my lifeline. My weapon.

I would divorce him. He thought he had annulled it? We would see. I would make sure he paid for every single tear, every single lie, every single breath my father fought for. My revenge would be a symphony of destruction, a meticulous unraveling of his empire, piece by agonizing piece. He wanted to wipe me out? I would wipe him out first.