Ava POV

The ballroom was a glittering sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns, but amidst the noise and the clinking crystal, I felt like the only person in the room.

Ethan's hand was a constant, possessive weight on my waist.

He guided me through the crowd of dangerous men and their perfectly manicured wives, showing me off like a prize, introducing me simply as his fiancée.

Every time he said the word, a foolish thrill shot through me.

I was wearing a dress that cost more than I would make in ten lifetimes, a lavish gift from him that felt like silk against my skin but heavy with expectation.

"Smile, Ava," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. "They are all looking at you."

I smiled.

I felt like a princess.

caught up in the fantasy, I didn't notice the way the other women looked at me-not with jealousy, but with pity.

I didn't notice the way the men looked at Ethan-with fear and cold calculation.

I only saw him.

He was attentive, bringing me drinks, asking if I was cold, and shielding me from the more aggressive guests.

But then I saw it.

A man approached us, a rival Capo perhaps, emboldened by drink, and made a joke that landed wrong.

Ethan's smile didn't fade, but his eyes changed.

They went dead.

It was a look of absolute zero, a void where human emotion should be.

The man stopped laughing instantly.

He paled and backed away, muttering stumbled apologies.

Ethan turned back to me, and the warmth returned to his eyes so quickly it made me dizzy.

"Just business, my love," he said, kissing my temple.

I told myself he had to be hard to protect us.

I told myself his cruelty was a shield, not a weapon.

A week later, just days before the wedding, he gave me a gift.

It was a heavy velvet box.

Inside lay a diamond necklace, the centerpiece a pendant shaped like the letter 'O'.

It was vintage, clearly old and incredibly valuable, the stones set in a dark, antique silver.

"It's beautiful," I breathed, letting him fasten it around my neck. "But... why 'O'?"

Ethan's hands lingered on my shoulders.

He looked at my reflection in the mirror, but his focus seemed to drift, as if he were looking through me, not at me.

"It stands for 'Ours'," he said softly. "A promise of our future."

I touched the cold metal, desperately wanting to believe him.

I didn't ask David, his Consigliere, why he looked away sharply when he saw it.

I didn't ask why the servants went deathly silent when I walked into the room wearing it.

The wedding day was a blur of white lace and flashing cameras.

My father walked me down the aisle, his arm trembling beneath mine.

He didn't look happy.

He looked like a man walking to the gallows, but I was too blinded by the lights to see it.

Ethan waited at the altar.

He looked magnificent.

He took my hand, and his grip was firm, grounding.

We said our vows.

I promised to love and cherish.

He promised to protect and provide.

"I, Ethan, take you, Ava..."

He paused.

For a split second, his eyes darted up, past me, to the high vaulted ceiling of the cathedral.

There was a mural painted there of angels ascending into a heaven he would never touch.

His expression cracked.

Just for a heartbeat, I saw agony.

Raw, bleeding agony that had nothing to do with joy.

Then it was gone, replaced by the mask of the composed Don.

He slid the ring onto my finger.

It felt heavy.

He kissed me, and the crowd erupted in applause.

I closed my eyes and leaned into him, thinking I had won the heart of a king.

I didn't know I was just a bandage placed over a wound that would never heal.

Ava POV

My life as Mrs. Cole was a series of golden rules and velvet ropes.

The estate was a labyrinth of marble and silence, filled with servants who obeyed my every command but never met my eyes.

I tried to be the perfect wife.

I learned the social protocols.

I hosted the charity dinners with a painted-on smile.

I waited for Ethan to come home every night, sometimes until the sun bled into the sky.

He was intense when he was there.

His touch was demanding, his passion in the bedroom overwhelming.

He made me feel worshipped-physically, at least.

But emotionally, there was a wall I couldn't climb.

There was a hallway in the east wing that was always locked.

"Storage," Ethan had said once, his tone flat, shutting down any further questions before they could even form.

I let it go.

I focused on what I could control.

My father visited once a month.

He looked older, more tired, the weight of our family's precarious position etched into his face.

"You must give him an heir, Ava," he whispered to me in the garden, looking over his shoulder as if the roses were listening. "That is your only safety. A son secures your place."

"I am safe, Papa," I said, hurt coloring my voice. "Ethan loves me."

My father just squeezed my hand, his fingers bony and cold.

I wanted a baby.

I wanted a piece of Ethan that was purely ours, something that would bridge the silent gap between us.

Two months later, I stared at the plastic stick on the bathroom counter.

Two pink lines.

Joy bloomed in my chest, so bright it made me dizzy.

I was pregnant.

I spent the afternoon preparing a special dinner.

I lit candles.

I wore his favorite silk dress, the one that shimmered like liquid moonlight.

When Ethan walked in, he looked exhausted, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder.

He stopped dead when he saw the table, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"What is this?"

"I have news," I said, walking toward him with a trembling heart.

I took his hand and placed it on my flat stomach.

"We're going to have a baby."

Ethan went still.

Absolute stillness.

He stared at my stomach, his face unreadable.

Then, a slow smile spread across his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

It was a smile of victory, not happiness.

He pulled me into a crushing hug, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

"An heir," he murmured against my scalp.

He didn't say "a baby."

He didn't say "our child."

"You have done well, Ava," he said, pulling back to look at me. "You will give me the son the family needs. You are my perfect queen."

I basked in his praise, ignoring the chill that pricked at my skin.

The news spread through the family like wildfire.

Suddenly, I was more valuable.

Guards were doubled.

My diet was monitored.

I was no longer just a wife; I was a precious vessel.

That night, lying in bed, Ethan's hand rested on my stomach.

"He will be strong," Ethan whispered in the dark. "He will carry the legacy."

"Or she," I teased gently.

Ethan didn't laugh.

"He," Ethan corrected firmly. "It must be a he."

I fell asleep with his hand on me, feeling safe, unaware that to him, I was just the soil where he had planted his seed-necessary, but ultimately replaceable.

Ava POV

The pregnancy wasn't just difficult; it was a war of attrition.

I was sick constantly, my body rejecting food as if it were poison, my energy drained until I felt utterly hollow.

Ethan hired the best doctors money could buy, but he treated them like mechanics fixing a car-he rarely bothered to show up for the appointments.

"Business," David would say, his eyes fixing on the rearview mirror as he drove me to the clinic. "The Don is handling urgent matters."

The "urgent matters" seemed to involve a lot of shouting behind closed doors and late-night phone calls that abruptly stopped the moment I entered the room.

I started to feel like a ghost haunting my own home.

Then the call came.

My father had collapsed. A massive heart attack.

Panic clawed at my throat. I was hysterical.

I ran to Ethan's office, blind with tears, ignoring the guards who tried to stop me.

I burst in, my lungs burning.

Ethan was on the phone, his back to me, staring out the window.

"Make it look like an accident," he was saying, his voice devoid of emotion, cold as steel. "Burn the car."

He turned and saw me.

He didn't look guilty. He didn't even flinch. He just looked annoyed.

He hung up the phone without a word of goodbye.

"Ethan, my father..." I sobbed, the words tearing out of my chest. "He's in the hospital. I need to go."

"David will take you," he said, sitting back down at his desk as if dismissing a subordinate.

"Come with me," I begged, reaching out to him. "Please. I need you."

He picked up a file, not looking at me.

"I have work, Ava. Go. Don't upset yourself, it's bad for the heir."

The heir.

Always the heir.

I left with David, crying silently in the back of the car, feeling smaller than I ever had in my life.

The hospital air was sterile, biting against my skin.

My father was hooked up to machines, his skin the color of ash.

I sat by his bed for hours, holding his hand, praying for a squeeze, a movement, anything.

He woke up only once.

His eyes were hazy, unfocused, searching the room for something he couldn't see.

"Ava..." he rasped.

"I'm here, Papa."

"The box..." he muttered, his voice barely a breath. "In the... library... hidden..."

"What box, Papa?"

"She... looks like... her..."

He drifted back into unconsciousness before I could ask more, leaving his riddle hanging in the antiseptic air.

I stayed for two days.

Ethan visited once.

He stayed for ten minutes, checked his watch three times, and patted my shoulder like I was a distressed employee.

"He had a good life," Ethan said, as if my father were already dead and filed away.

I looked at my husband, really looked at him.

I saw the cold calculation in his blue eyes.

I saw the way he stood apart from the grief, untouched by it, armored against it.

A crack formed in my heart.

A seed of doubt, ugly and thorny, began to take root.

Needing to escape the suffocating room, I went to the cafeteria to get coffee, leaving David at the door.

When I came back, I heard David talking on his phone in the hallway.

He didn't see me.

"Yes, Don Cole," David said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet corridor. "She is still here. No, he hasn't said anything. He is delirious."

Pause.

"Understood. If he wakes up and starts talking about the past... I will handle it."

I froze.

Handle it?

Handle my dying father?

I backed away, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would bruise my ribs.

I wasn't safe.

My father wasn't safe.

I returned to the room, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the coffee.

I looked at my father, realizing that the secrets he held were dangerous enough to make my husband-my protector-consider silencing him.

The fairytale was dissolving, revealing the horror story written underneath.