Chapter 2

Ava POV

My father took his last breath at exactly 3:00 AM.

He flatlined to the sound of a hollow electronic whine, the sound filling the room while I was staring at a photo of my husband holding another woman's hand.

The image glowed cruelly on my phone screen-a candid shot sent by an anonymous number. The grief didn't hit me all at once. It crashed over me in waves, mixed with a sickening nausea that had nothing to do with the pregnancy. Mechanically, I handled the arrangements. I hugged my mother while she wept. I signed the papers. I was a robot, programmed only to function.

Ethan came back two days later.

He swept into our penthouse, looking impeccable in his charcoal suit, as if he hadn't just stepped off a transatlantic flight. He dropped his bag and pulled me into a practiced hug.

"Ava," he said, his voice thick with rehearsed performance. "I am so sorry. I got on the first flight back when I saw your messages."

I stood in his arms, stiff as stone. I smelled her on him. A distinct, floral perfume-jasmine and deceit-that wasn't mine.

"My battery died," he whispered against my hair, the lie smooth on his tongue. "I felt helpless."

"It's okay," I said. My voice sounded like it was coming from across the room, detached and hollow. "You're here now."

I didn't show him the photo. I didn't scream. I just watched him.

I watched him check his phone every five minutes during the wake, shielding the screen with his palm. I watched him step out onto the balcony during the funeral service, pacing impatiently.

He wasn't grieving my father. He was annoyed that my tragedy was interrupting his reunion.

A week later, I came home early from my mother's house. The apartment was tomblike, silent.

Then, I heard a low voice coming from the study.

I walked softly down the hallway, my footsteps absorbed by the plush carpet. The door was cracked open.

"I know, Liv," Ethan was saying, his tone hushed but urgent. "She's... fragile right now. Her father just died. I can't leave her yet. It would ruin my public image. The board would lose confidence."

I stopped breathing.

"The baby?" He sighed, a sound of pure frustration. "The baby is the only complication. But don't worry. I'll make sure it works out for us. You are the only one I've ever seen a future with."

He laughed then. A soft, intimate sound I had never heard him make with me. "I miss you too. God, London wasn't enough."

I backed away. I retreated to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling.

I needed to know the full extent of it.

When he went to the shower, steaming up the bathroom mirrors, I slipped into his study.

I had never snooped before. I respected his privacy. I was the perfect, trusting wife.

I opened the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk. It was locked.

I knew where the key was. Taped under the velvet lining of his pen case. I found it instantly.

I unlocked the drawer.

It wasn't just a drawer. It was a shrine.

There were hundreds of photos of Olivia. Some were old, faded snapshots from college. Some were new. Some were taken last week in London, their faces pressed together.

There were letters. And a leather-bound journal.

I opened the journal to the last entry, the ink barely dry.

"Ava is pregnant. I looked at the ultrasound today. I prayed to a God I don't believe in that the child has Olivia's eyes. If the child looks like Olivia, I can pretend. I can pretend Ava is her. I can pretend I didn't settle for the safe, boring option just to please the board of directors."

He went on, his handwriting jagged with intensity.

"Ava is a good placeholder. She is quiet. She is manageable. But she isn't Her."

I closed the book.

I put it back. I locked the drawer.

I walked to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my dark hair. My pale skin.

I wasn't his wife. I was a cosplayer in his fantasy.

I placed a hand on my stomach.

He wanted this baby to be a ghost of another woman. He wanted to use my child to fuel his obsession.

The tears didn't come.

Instead, a cold, hard knot formed in the center of my chest. It was heavier than grief. It was sharper than betrayal.

I washed my face, scrubbing until the skin turned pink. I walked out of the bathroom.

Ethan was coming out of the shower, a towel slung low around his waist. He smiled at me. A dazzling, fake smile.

"Hey, honey," he said, casual as a viper. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," I said.

And I was. Because the Ava who loved him died in that study.