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.

Ava Miller POV:

I woke up in the back of a moving car.

My teeth were chattering so hard I thought they would crack under the pressure.

Donovan was on the phone in the front seat, his voice low and tight.

He sounded frantic.

"She was mumbling something," he said to the person on the other end. "About leaving. About a contract."

He hung up abruptly when he saw me moving in the rearview mirror.

Without stopping the car, he climbed into the back seat.

He wrapped a heavy blanket around me, tucking it in tight.

His hands were trembling.

"What did you mean?" he asked.

His eyes were searching mine, desperate for reassurance.

"You said 'It's over.' You said 'I'm free.' What did you mean?"

I looked at him, my expression blank.

He looked guilty. Guilt was written in every line of his face.

Good.

"I was dreaming," I whispered, my voice raspy. "I was delirious."

He let out a shaky breath.

He pulled me against his chest, burying his face in my neck.

"I'm sorry," he said into my hair. "I had to. She was hysterical."

I didn't hug him back.

I sat there frozen, unyielding, like a statue.

*

The next day, Chloe sent an invitation.

A charity party on the Blackwood Yacht.

Ostensibly, it was to celebrate her recovery.

And to celebrate the "unity" of the family.

It was a trap.

I knew it was a trap. Every instinct screamed at me not to go.

But I put on a white dress anyway. I would not hide.

I walked onto the boat, head held high.

Music was playing. Champagne was flowing.

Chloe was holding court in the center of the deck, surrounded by admirers.

She saw me and smiled.

It was the smile of a predator spotting wounded prey.

She walked over, linking her arm through Donovan's possessively.

"Look who decided to show up," she said loudly, drawing the room's attention. "The mermaid."

People laughed.

Donovan looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight.

"Stop it, Chloe," he muttered.

She ignored him completely.

She cornered me by the railing as the crowd dispersed.

We were alone for a moment.

"You're a good actress," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Giving me blood? Pretending to be weak? I know you're plotting something."

"I'm leaving," I said quietly. "You can have him."

She laughed, a cold, sharp sound.

"I don't just want him," she said. "I want you destroyed."

Suddenly, the boat lurched violently.

A massive wave from a passing tanker hit the side of the yacht.

Chloe stumbled.

She grabbed my dress to steady herself, her fingers digging into the fabric.

We both went over the rail.

We hit the water together with a bone-jarring splash.

This time, there were no bodyguards on the pier.

We were in the deep ocean.

The current was strong, pulling at my limbs.

My dress was heavy, soaking up water instantly. It dragged me down.

Chloe was screaming, thrashing in the water panic taking over.

"Help! Donovan!"

I saw the spotlight from the boat sweep over the dark water.

A rescue boat was lowered rapidly.

Donovan was at the bow, screaming.

I treaded water, trying to keep my head up against the weight of the gown.

The rescue boat got close.

It was between us.

They could reach me. Or they could reach her.

"Grab my wife!" a guard shouted, reaching toward me.

"No!" Donovan's voice cut through the wind. It was a primal roar.

"Get Chloe! Get Chloe first!"

The crew hesitated, confused.

"DO IT!" he screamed.

The boat turned away from me.

They reached for Chloe.

I stopped kicking.

A strange calm settled over me.

He chose.

Again.

He would always choose her.

I let the water take me.

I sank beneath the surface.

It was quiet down here.

Then, pain exploded in my leg.

Something struck me hard.

Debris? A shark? The propeller?

I didn't know.

The water turned red around me.

My vision went black.

The last thing I heard was the muffled sound of Donovan screaming my name.

But by then, it was already too late.

Ava Miller POV

The sharp sting of antiseptic burned my nose before I even opened my eyes.

I was alive.

Disappointment settled in my chest like a heavy, suffocating stone.

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. I was in a hospital room, but not a private suite. It was a general ward. The privacy curtain was half-torn, fluttering weakly from the air conditioning.

Whispers floated from the hallway, cruel and indistinct.

*"He saved the mistress. Left the wife to drown. Cold bastard."*

The door banged open.

Donovan Blackwood filled the frame.

He didn't look relieved. He looked like a storm barely contained in a suit.

He marched to the side of the bed. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't check the monitors.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

My throat was raw from the saltwater, shredded by the sea. I tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

"Don't play dumb, Isabella," he snarled. "You pulled her in. I saw you grab her dress."

I stared at him.

The water had washed away my fear. It left nothing but a hollow, echoing silence.

"I didn't touch her," I whispered.

"Liar!"

He grabbed a glass vase of wilted flowers from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall.

Glass shattered, exploding outward. Water splashed onto the linoleum mixed with the petals of dying roses.

The nurses in the hallway gasped, but no one came in. No one interfered with the Don.

"Chloe is missing," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "The current took her. The divers can't find her."

He leaned over me. His blue eyes were black with hate.

"If she is dead, you will wish you had drowned."

He turned to the two guards stationed at the door.

"No doctors. No food. No painkillers. She sits in this bed and thinks about what she did until I say otherwise."

He walked out.

The door clicked shut.

I closed my eyes.

Hunger was an old friend. Pain was a familiar neighbor.

I lay there for two days.

I counted the tiles on the ceiling. One hundred and forty-four.

On the third morning, the door opened.

Donovan looked haggard. Stubble covered his jaw, dark and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot maps of sleeplessness.

"Get up," he said.

He threw a bag of clothes onto the bed.

"We are leaving."

I dressed with shaking hands. My leg throbbed where the debris had hit me underwater, a dull, rhythmic agony.

I followed him to the car.

We didn't go to the estate.

We drove to the industrial district. To the docks controlled by the Ivanov Bratva.

The car stopped in front of a rusted warehouse.

A man was waiting. Dmitri. He was known as The Abuser. He had a reputation for breaking women like they were dry twigs.

Donovan got out. I followed.

Dmitri smiled. His teeth were capped in gold.

"He has her?" Donovan asked.

Dmitri nodded. "She is safe. For now. But the price has changed."

Donovan didn't hesitate.

"Take her," he said, jerking his head toward me.

I froze.

He was trading me.

His wife for his mistress.

"Wait," I said.

Donovan looked at me. There was no recognition in his eyes. Just a transaction.

"You want her back?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then sign the papers," I said.

Donovan blinked.

"What?"

"The contract," I said. My voice was steady, though my knees were knocking together. "Terminate the marriage. Transfer the trust fund. Do it now, and I will go with him."

He looked at me like I was insane.

"You're bargaining?"

"I'm securing my severance," I said.

He pulled out his phone. He made a call to his lawyer.

"Done," he said after a minute. "The money is in escrow. It releases when you sign."

He shoved me toward Dmitri.

Dmitri's hand clamped onto my shoulder. It felt like a meat hook.

Donovan walked toward the other side of the warehouse, where a sobbing Chloe was being led out.

He didn't look back.

Dmitri dragged me into the darkness.

The next six hours were a blur of agony.

They didn't want information. They just wanted to send a message to the Blackwoods that their property could be damaged.

They tied me to a chair.

Dmitri used a knife. Not to kill. Just to carve.

He asked me about shipping routes I didn't know.

When I didn't answer, he cut deeper.

I didn't scream.

Isabella would have screamed.

I just counted.

*Fifty million. Fifty million. Fifty million.*

At dawn, I heard them talking in the next room.

*"Kill her in the morning. Wrap her in a carpet. Send her back in pieces."*

I looked at the window.

It was high up. Broken.

My hands were tied with zip ties.

There was a piece of rusted rebar sticking out of the concrete wall behind me.

I scooted the chair backward.

I rubbed the plastic tie against the jagged metal.

Friction. Heat. Snap.

My skin tore, but the plastic gave way.

I climbed.

I squeezed through the window. Glass sliced my arm, adding to the map of pain on my body.

I fell onto the asphalt outside.

I ran.

I stole a taxi at a red light, terrifying the driver with my blood-soaked dress.

"Take me to the Blackwood Estate," I ordered.

I walked through the front door as the sun was rising.

Donovan and Chloe were in the living room.

She was wrapped in a cashmere blanket, sipping tea. Not a scratch on her.

Donovan was holding her hand.

I stood in the archway.

Blood dripped from my fingertips onto the white marble floor.

Donovan looked up.

His face went pale.

"Isabella?" he whispered.

I didn't look at him.

I looked at the pen on the coffee table.

"I'm here to sign," I said.