The PR Guru and The Predator

I was Ava Miller, Hollywood's top PR guru, thriving at my firm, happily pregnant with my fiancé Ethan's child.

One ordinary evening, Ethan's familiar tea tasted odd.

Darkness.

I awoke tied to a chair, dimly lit, only to see Rex Donovan, my volatile client, standing there.

And Ethan. My Ethan.

My blood ran cold as Ethan, with chilling casualness, exposed his betrayal, blaming me for an intern's past disappearance.

He fed Rex a grotesque lie, fueling the rock star's rage.

The pain was unimaginable; Rex ensured I knew he was killing my baby first, tearing my world apart.

As darkness embraced me, my last sight was Ethan, watching, his face a mask of pure hatred.

"Why?" I choked, blood filling my mouth, grappling with this unfathomable betrayal.

Then, a jolt.

I gasped, bolt upright in my office chair, my stomach flat.

The calendar showed it was *that* day – the day Chloe Sanders first walked in, asking for the Rex Donovan case.

I was back.

The flashing lights of paparazzi cameras were a familiar migraine. Rex "The Viper" Donovan, rock god and human train wreck, was my latest client. Domestic violence, a mountain of cocaine, the usual Tuesday in Hollywood crisis PR. I was Ava Miller, the woman they called when careers were flatlining.

My office at "Vance & Miller PR," the firm I co-owned with my boyfriend, Ethan Vance, buzzed.

"Ava, please." Chloe Sanders, Ethan's intern, practically vibrated in front of my desk. Her eyes were wide, hungry. "Rex Donovan. If I could just assist, learn from you on this one. It would make my career."

I looked at her. Young, ambitious, utterly clueless about the inferno she wanted to dance in. "Chloe," I said, my voice flat, "this isn't a spilled latte at an awards show. This is a Category Five hurricane. You're not ready to even hold the umbrella."

Her face crumpled. "You just don't think I'm good enough."

"I think you lack the experience to navigate a minefield where one wrong step detonates a global scandal and possibly sends a man to prison for a very long time, regardless of guilt."

She didn't hear the nuance. She heard rejection. Chloe stormed out, tears streaming, vowing to go overseas, find some "real stories" as a freelance journalist in a war-torn region. Ethan tried to smooth it over. "She's just eager, Ava. A bit too much, maybe."

I waved him off. I had work to do.

Months later, news trickled in. A chaotic press event, a bomb, Chloe Sanders presumed dead. A pang of something, maybe guilt, maybe just a fleeting sadness for wasted youth.

I buried myself in Rex's case. It was ugly. He was violent, volatile. But my job wasn't to judge his soul; it was to manage the fallout. I spun, I strategized, I fed carefully curated soundbites to the press. I didn't get him acquitted of public opinion, but I downgraded his image from "monster" to "deeply troubled artist with anger issues." His record label didn't drop him. His tour wasn't entirely cancelled. In our world, that was a win. My reputation solidified. Ava Miller: miracle worker.

Three years later, I was eight months pregnant with Ethan's child, our child. Life felt... settled. Almost peaceful. The Rex Donovan mess was a distant memory, a notch on my belt.

Then, one evening, the tea Ethan made me tasted strange. My head swam. Darkness.

I woke up tied to a chair. My apartment. Dimly lit.

Rex Donovan stood in front of me, a predatory grin stretching his lips.

And Ethan was there. My Ethan.

"Strong stuff, huh?" Ethan said, his voice casual, like he was commenting on the weather. He gestured to Rex. "See, Rex? I told you she was the problem."

My blood ran cold. "Ethan... what is this?"

Rex chuckled, a low, guttural sound. "Payback, bitch."

Ethan stepped closer, his face unreadable. "If Ava had just given Chloe the case, Rex, Chloe wouldn't have gone to that shithole country. She wouldn't be dead." He turned to Rex. "And your reputation? It wouldn't just be 'managed.' Chloe had ideas. Real ideas. She could have made you a saint, a victim of a vicious gold-digger."

My mind reeled. "He beat Isabelle Hayes half to death, Ethan! There were photos, hospital records! No PR campaign on earth could erase that!"

Rex's eyes, already unhinged, blazed with fresh fury at Ethan's words. He clearly believed this new narrative. He grabbed a heavy glass award from a nearby shelf – one of mine.

"He didn't just beat her," Ethan said, his voice rising, feeding Rex's rage. "She provoked him! Chloe saw it! Ava buried it! She wanted you to stay just damaged enough so she could look like a genius for saving you, but not so clean that Chloe could outshine her!"

It was a grotesque lie, a twisted fantasy. But Rex, his mind already a swamp of paranoia and rage, bought every word.

He advanced on me.

I screamed. For my baby. For myself.

The pain was unimaginable. He didn't just kill me. He made sure I knew he was killing my child first. He tore my world apart, piece by piece.

As the darkness closed in, my last sight was Ethan, watching.

"Why?" I choked out, blood filling my mouth.

His face twisted into a mask of pure hatred. "If you hadn't been so damn selfish, so determined to keep that case from Chloe, she wouldn't have run off to get herself killed! She'd be here! We'd be together! This is all your fault, Ava!"

Darkness.

Then, a gasp.

My own.

I was sitting bolt upright in my office chair. Sunlight streamed through the window. My hands flew to my stomach. Flat. No baby.

My head whipped to the wall calendar. The date. It was the day. The day Chloe Sanders had first asked me for the Rex Donovan case.

"Ava, please."

I turned. Chloe stood there, eyes wide, exactly as she had been.

I was back.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The air in my office felt thick, stolen from my lungs. Chloe Sanders. Ethan. The same scene, the same request.

"Rex Donovan," Chloe repeated, her voice earnest, a little breathless. "I know I can do this, Ava. It's my big break! Just let me shadow you, assist in any way."

Ethan leaned against the doorframe, a casual pose I now saw as predatory. "Ava, come on. Chloe's got fresh eyes. She's smart. Maybe she sees an angle we're missing. What's the harm in letting her contribute?"

The harm. The absolute, soul-shattering harm. I saw my own blood, felt the phantom agony in my womb.

My voice, when it came, was raspy. "Chloe," I began, my eyes locking onto hers, "how exactly do you plan to manage PR for a man like Rex Donovan? A man notorious for domestic violence, with a string of victims?" I paused, letting the silence stretch. "Are you planning to manufacture evidence? Perhaps coach witnesses to lie to the public?"

Chloe recoiled as if struck. Her eyes welled up instantly. "Ava! How can you say that to me?" she stammered, voice thick with tears. "I have ethics! I would never... I just want a chance to prove myself! If you don't trust me, if you think I'm that kind of person, then... then I'll just leave!" She made a move as if to flee.

Ethan was by her side in an instant, one hand on her arm, all comforting concern. "Chloe, Chloe, don't listen to her. It's not your fault." He shot me a look of pure disapproval. "Ava, that was completely uncalled for. She's just ambitious. You're established. Why not give her a shot? It's just one case, for God's sake."

*Just one case.* The words echoed in my mind, laced with the memory of Ethan's face as I died. *The case that got me murdered. The case you used to justify it.*

I looked at him, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time. The charming boyfriend, the supportive business partner. All a facade.

"One case," I repeated, my voice dangerously low. "Isabelle Hayes was beaten so severely she required reconstructive surgery, Ethan. There are police reports, medical records, restraining orders from previous girlfriends. How do you propose Chloe makes *that* disappear?"

My directness, my cold fury, seemed to throw him. He was used to me being pragmatic, professional, not... accusatory.

Colleagues were starting to peer around their cubicle walls, drawn by the raised voices and Chloe's theatrical sobs. The office sharks, smelling blood in the water.

Ethan's face hardened. "Ava, you're being deliberately difficult."

"Am I?" I asked. "Or am I asking the questions any competent PR professional should ask before unleashing an intern on a case that could destroy this firm if mishandled?"

The battle lines were drawn. This time, I wasn't just fighting for a case. I was fighting for my life.