Ava Miller POV

I woke up on the hardwood floor.

The sun was streaming through the hallway window, a harsh, white glare that blinded me.

My head felt like it had been split open with an axe. A dull, throbbing rhythm beat against my skull.

I tried to sit up, but the room spun violently.

I groaned, clutching my temples.

A pair of polished black shoes stepped into my line of sight.

Donovan.

He was dressed in a fresh suit, looking immaculate, as if he hadn't just assaulted his wife.

He loomed over me, his eyes void of sympathy.

"Get up," he said.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog clouding my vision.

"I think I have a concussion," I whispered.

He laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound, devoid of humor.

"Chloe has a scratch on her arm because of your threats," he said. "You'll live."

He reached down and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the tender flesh.

He hauled me to my feet with a brutal jerk.

I swayed, grabbing the banister for support as black spots danced in my vision.

Nausea rolled in my stomach.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "We are going to her penthouse."

"Why?" I asked. My voice was raspy, foreign to my own ears.

"To apologize," he said.

I stared at him.

He was serious.

He wanted his wife to apologize to his mistress for a threat I never made.

"I didn't do anything," I said.

His grip tightened on my arm until I winced.

"Don't lie to me, Isabella. I know how your family operates. You think you own everything. You think you can bully her."

He was projecting.

He was seeing my sister.

He wasn't seeing me.

I looked at the clock on the wall.

The transfer time was approaching. The money should be in the account any minute now.

I just needed to get away from him.

"Fine," I said, my tone hollow. "I'll apologize."

He released me with a shove.

"Ten minutes."

I dressed in a simple grey dress.

I didn't bother with makeup to cover the bruise blooming on my temple.

Let him see it.

Let everyone see what the great Donovan Blackwood did to his wife.

The car ride was silent, suffocating.

Donovan tapped away on his phone, ignoring me as if I were luggage.

We arrived at a luxury high-rise downtown.

Chloe opened the door.

She was wearing a silk robe that cost more than my first car.

She saw me and gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in a theatrical display of shock.

"Donovan," she whimpered. "Why is she here? I'm scared."

It was such a bad performance.

I almost laughed.

But Donovan bought it.

He stepped between us, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist.

"She's here to make it right," he said gently to her. Then his voice hardened as he looked at me. "Say it."

I looked at Chloe.

She peeked out from behind Donovan's shoulder.

A smirk curled the corner of her lips.

She wasn't scared.

She was winning.

"I'm sorry," I said. My voice was flat, dead.

"For what?" Donovan demanded.

"For scaring you," I recited. "It won't happen again."

Chloe let out a shaky breath.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I just... I want us to get along."

Donovan kissed her forehead.

"You're too good, Chloe."

He turned to me.

"Since you're here, you can help her. The maid called in sick. Chloe needs help getting ready for lunch."

I stared at him.

"You want me to clean?"

"Penance," he said.

He sat on the sofa and opened a newspaper, dismissing me completely.

I spent the next hour steaming Chloe's dress.

I fetched her water.

I picked up her discarded clothes from the floor.

I felt like a hollow shell, but inside, I was counting down the seconds.

A maid walked in to bring coffee.

She saw me on my knees, buckling Chloe's strappy sandals.

She leaned in to whisper to another servant, her voice low but audible.

"Mrs. Blackwood must love him so much to endure this," she said. "It's tragic."

Donovan looked up.

He heard it.

He looked at me.

I was still on my knees.

I didn't look angry. I didn't look proud.

I just looked tired.

For a second, confusion flashed in his eyes.

He expected Isabella to scream. To throw the shoes. He wanted the fire, not the ash.

My silence unsettled him.

He stood up abruptly.

"We're leaving," he told Chloe.

"What about her?" Chloe pointed a manicured nail at me.

"She stays," Donovan said. "She can walk home."

It was five miles to the estate.

"Okay," I said.

Donovan paused at the door.

He looked back at me, a frown marring his perfect features.

"Why do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Stay."

I looked him in the eye.

"Because I made a promise," I said.

He didn't understand.

He thought I meant wedding vows.

I meant the contract with my father.

He shook his head and left.

I waited until the elevator chimed.

Then I took out my phone.

I checked my bank account.

Fifty million dollars.

Cleared.

I let out a sob that was half-laugh, half-cry.

I walked out of the penthouse.

I didn't go home.

I went to a pharmacy and bought a burner SIM card.

Then I checked the news.

A photo popped up.

Donovan and Chloe on a yacht.

The headline read: *Don Blackwood and Chloe Rekindle Romance. Wife nowhere in sight.*

I looked at his face in the photo.

He was smiling at her.

He never smiled at me.

I felt a strange sensation in my chest.

It wasn't jealousy.

It was relief.

He was distracted.

He wouldn't notice I was gone until it was too late.

Ava Miller POV

I didn't leave immediately.

I couldn't.

My grandfather, the Old Don of the Miller family, had summoned me.

If I didn't show, he would know something was wrong before I could even clear the city limits.

The Blackwood Family Foundation Gala was the event of the season. Every crime boss, corrupt politician, and money launderer in the state was there, clinking crystal glasses and pretending to be civilized.

I wore black.

It felt appropriate for a funeral.

Because that's what this was. The funeral of my fake life.

I stood by the champagne tower, alone. Donovan wasn't here. He was still on the "business trip" that everyone knew was a romantic getaway with Chloe.

Whispers followed me like smoke.

*Where is he?*

*She can't keep a man.*

*Pathetic.*

A hand clamped onto my elbow. It was bony, cold, and strong.

I turned to see my grandfather. His eyes were like coal, hard and unyielding.

"Where is your husband?" he hissed.

"He is working," I lied, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.

"Liar."

A young cousin of mine, a girl of sixteen with eyes too sharp for her age, walked past us. She held up her phone, a cruel smirk playing on her lips.

"Did you see this?" she giggled. "It's trending."

She showed the screen to my grandfather.

It was a new photo. Donovan and Chloe, kissing on the deck of a yacht. The timestamp was two hours ago.

The ballroom seemed to go silent. My grandfather's grip on my arm tightened until I felt a bruise forming beneath the silk of my sleeve.

"Come with me," he said.

He dragged me out of the ballroom and into a private study reserved for the family elite. He shoved me inside.

I stumbled but caught myself on the edge of a heavy mahogany desk.

"You are embarrassing this family," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"I can't control him," I said quietly.

"You are his wife! You are a Miller! You are supposed to be strong!"

He raised his cane.

I didn't flinch. I had learned a long time ago that flinching made it worse.

He struck me across the legs.

The wood cracked against my shin with a sickening thud.

Pain shot up my body, white and hot. I bit my lip until I tasted copper to keep from screaming.

"Fix this," he spat, looming over me. "Or next time, I won't use the cane. I'll use a bullet."

He left me there.

I waited until the pain subsided to a dull throb before I limped out the back exit.

I took a taxi back to the Blackwood Estate and dragged myself up the stairs to my room.

The door opened.

Donovan was there.

He was sitting on my bed, head in his hands. He looked tired.

He saw my limp. He saw the tear in my stocking where the cane had hit.

"What happened?" he asked.

I sat on the vanity stool, turning away from him.

"I fell," I said.

Donovan stood up. He walked over to me and crouched down. He reached out, his fingers warm as they brushed the red mark on my shin.

"Who did this?" he asked, his voice tight.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "You were busy."

He flinched. He actually flinched.

"I was working," he said automatically.

I looked at him.

"I know," I said.

I knew he was lying. He knew I knew.

He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"I'll call the doctor," he said.

"No," I said. "I'm fine."

He lingered in the doorway. He looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn't. He left.

Three days later, he dragged me out of the house.

He was angry about the rumors. Not because they hurt me, but because they made him look like he couldn't control his household.

He took me to a boutique downtown.

"Pick something," he ordered. "We have a dinner tonight. You need to look... alive."

He treated me like a doll. I tried on a red dress. It was tight. It showed too much skin.

Donovan stared at me in the mirror. His eyes darkened. For a second, there was heat in his gaze.

Then he looked out the window.

His body went rigid.

Chloe.

She was walking across the street. She looked upset, crying into a phone.

Donovan dropped the bags he was holding. He didn't say a word to me. He ran out of the store.

"Donovan!" I called out.

I followed him to the door.

He was running across the street toward her.

Chloe looked up. She saw him and stopped in the middle of the road, putting on a face of tragic betrayal.

Above her, construction scaffolding groaned ominously.

The metal snapped.

A pile of steel pipes and concrete debris tipped over the edge, falling straight for her.

Donovan screamed her name.

He didn't look at traffic. He didn't look at me.

He dove.

He tackled her, covering her body with his own as the world crashed down around them.

Ava Miller POV

Dust choked the air, thick and acrid.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with every heartbeat.

I stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching the man I married bleed for another woman.

Donovan was moving before the dust had even settled.

He shoved a heavy steel pipe off his leg, ignoring the dark stain spreading on his own trousers.

He didn't check his own injuries. He didn't even look for me.

He was frantically cupping Chloe's face, his hands shaking.

"Chloe! Chloe, look at me!"

She was unconscious, her body limp like a ragdoll.

Blood was pooling under her head, a stark crimson against the gray concrete.

I walked toward them, my movements mechanical.

My heels crunched on broken glass, a sickening sound in the sudden silence.

Donovan looked up.

His face was a mask of gray dust and red smears, his eyes wild.

"Help her!" he screamed at me, his voice raw.

I knelt down beside the woman who had ruined my life.

I checked her pulse.

It was there, but it was weak. Thready.

The ambulance arrived two minutes later, chaos descending in flashing lights.

I rode in the front.

Donovan rode in the back, holding her hand, whispering prayers he never said for me.

At the hospital, chaos reigned.

Doctors shouted codes I didn't understand, their voices sharp with urgency.

Donovan was pacing the waiting room like a caged tiger, his bloodied shirt clinging to his chest.

A doctor came out, looking grim.

"She's losing blood fast," he said, his tone grave. "We need an immediate transfusion, but the blood bank is critically low on AB Negative. It's rare. We're calling other hospitals, but time is—"

Donovan grabbed the doctor by the collar, slamming him against the wall.

"Find it!" he roared, the sound echoing down the sterile hall. "I will buy this entire goddamn hospital if I have to! Just find it!"

I stood up, my legs trembling slightly.

"I'm AB Negative," I said.

The room went silent.

Donovan turned to look at me, his grip on the doctor loosening.

His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief.

"You?" he asked.

"Take it," I told the doctor, rolling up my sleeve. "Take as much as you need."

They rushed me to a chair next to her bed.

They hooked me up.

I watched my red blood flow through the clear tube.

It was draining out of me.

Going into her.

It felt twistedly poetic.

I had given my life, my youth, and my heart to this marriage. And now, I was giving my literal blood to the woman who had destroyed it.

Donovan came in while I was squeezing the stress ball, pumping life into his mistress.

He stood by the bed, his gaze shifting between Chloe's pale face and the tube connecting us.

"Why?" he asked.

His voice was hoarse, broken.

"Why are you doing this? After everything?"

I looked up at the sterile ceiling tiles, counting the dots.

"I didn't want you to be sad," I said softly.

It was the truth.

If she died, she would become a martyr. He would mourn her forever. He would never let me go, binding me to his grief.

If she lived, he would have her. And I could finally leave.

Donovan reached out.

He took my free hand, his fingers warm against my cold skin.

"Thank you, Isabella," he whispered.

He squeezed my hand.

For the first time in three years, he looked at me with something that wasn't hate. It looked almost like... regret.

The doctor poked his head in.

"She's awake, Mr. Blackwood."

Donovan dropped my hand as if it were a burning coal.

He turned and ran out of the room without a backward glance.

I was left alone with the needle in my arm.

I felt cold.

So incredibly cold.

An hour later, I was discharged.

I felt dizzy, lightheaded from the blood loss, but I walked to Chloe's room.

I wanted to tell Donovan I was going home. I wanted to tell him it was over.

I stopped at the door.

Chloe was crying, her voice pitched high and frantic.

"She looks so smug, Donovan!" she sobbed. "She looked at me like she wanted me to die! She probably paid the construction workers to drop it!"

"Chloe, that's crazy," Donovan said, his voice gentle, soothing. "She gave you her blood. She saved you."

"She's manipulating you!" Chloe shrieked. "She wants you to think she's a saint! Prove you love me, Donovan. Please. I'm so scared of her."

There was a long, heavy silence.

Then Donovan spoke, his voice dropping an octave.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Get rid of her," Chloe whispered, the malice dripping from her tone. "Not... not kill her. But show her she means nothing. Show her she's trash compared to me."

I held my breath, my hand hovering over the door handle.

"Okay," Donovan said.

"Okay."

He walked out of the room.

He saw me standing there.

His face had hardened into a mask of stone. The regret was gone.

"Come with me," he said.

He drove us to the cliffs.

The ocean was raging below, the water black and freezing against the jagged rocks.

"Get out," he commanded.

We stood on the edge of the pier, the wooden planks slick with sea spray.

The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.

Donovan looked at me.

There was conflict in his eyes, a flicker of humanity, but it was buried under duty. Under his sickness for her.

"She needs to know she's safe," he said, as if trying to convince himself.

I didn't say anything.

I just looked at him, waiting.

He put his hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Then he pushed me.

I fell backward into the void.

The water hit me with the force of a concrete wall.

The cold stole the air from my lungs instantly.

I sank.

Saltwater filled my nose, burning like acid.

I didn't fight.

I was so tired.

Strong hands grabbed my coat before the darkness could take me completely.

Donovan's bodyguards hauled me out.

They threw me onto the wooden planks like a sack of unwanted refuse.

I coughed up water, shivering violently, my body convulsing.

Donovan was standing over me.

He looked pale.

He looked like he might vomit.

He had done it.

He had proven his loyalty to the mistress by trying to drown the wife.

"Take her home," he told the guards, his voice trembling.

He walked away.

I lay on the wet wood, shaking uncontrollably.

And in the cold, I realized something.

He didn't push Isabella.

He pushed me.

Ava.

And Ava was done.