Ava POV

The darkness had teeth, and they were gnawing at my shoulder.

Fever took me sometime in the middle of the night. The infection from the gunshot wound radiated outward like a brushfire, turning my blood to magma. I drifted in and out of consciousness, untethered from reality.

In my dreams, Harrison was holding me. He was whispering vows, promising to kill anyone who touched me. I vow to protect you, Ava. Till death.

Then his face would melt, the skin dripping away like wet wax to reveal a grinning skull. The voice would warp, twisting into hers. Brooke's laughter. Sharp. Mocking. A serrated blade against my ear.

I woke to the sensation of cool fingers on my forehead.

"Shh, you're burning up."

Harrison was there. The morning sun sliced through the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. He looked concerned. Perfectly, impeccably concerned. It was terrifying how easily he wore that mask.

He reached down and loosened the bindings at my wrists. My hands were numb, mottled violet from the lack of blood flow. I couldn't move them.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his thumbs digging into my flesh as he rubbed circulation back into my arms. "I didn't want to do that. You were out of control. You could have hurt yourself."

The pins and needles of returning feeling stung like fire ants, but I didn't have the energy to pull away. I was a ragdoll in his grip.

"We need to get you back to the hospital," he said, lifting me as if I weighed nothing more than a ghost.

He carried me out to the car. He sat by my bedside while the doctors flushed my wound and pumped me full of antibiotics. He held my hand. He played the role of the devoted husband so perfectly that the nurses cooed at him, blind to the bruises on my soul.

He's a monster, I screamed inside my head. Run.

But I couldn't run. I was weak. And I had nowhere to go. Not yet.

Two days later, he brought me home.

"I have a surprise," he said as we pulled into the driveway.

He didn't turn into our gate. Instead, he pointed across the street. The sprawling Victorian mansion opposite ours-the one that had been empty for years-had a moving truck idling in the driveway.

"I bought it," Harrison said, smiling. "For security. We need a perimeter."

My stomach dropped through the floor. "Who's living there?"

As if on cue, the front door of the Victorian house opened. Brooke stepped out. She was wearing a white sundress, holding a clipboard, directing the movers. She looked radiant. Alive. Everything I currently was not.

"She needs protection too, Ava," Harrison said, his voice hard, daring me to object. "After the bank... she's a target. It makes sense to keep her close."

Close. She was thirty yards away. I could practically see the reflection of my own misery in her windows.

I didn't say a word. I went into the house and walked straight to the kitchen. I needed to do something with my hands. I started chopping vegetables for soup, the knife thudding rhythmically against the board.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Harrison came in an hour later. He sniffed the air.

"Smells good," he said. He took a bowl from the cabinet.

I watched, frozen, as he ladled the soup I made-my grandmother's sacred recipe-into a plastic Tupperware container.

"Brooke's kitchen isn't set up yet," he said casually, snapping the lid shut. "She hasn't eaten all day."

He walked to the pantry. I followed, silent as a shadow.

He pulled out a burner phone from behind a stack of pasta boxes. He dialed.

"Hey, baby," he said. His voice was different. Softer. Real. "I'm coming over. Yeah, I got the soup. No, she doesn't suspect anything. She's too medicated to notice the sky is blue."

He laughed.

I backed away before he turned around. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the knife on the counter. My fingers twitched, imagining the weight of the handle.

He walked past me a minute later, the Tupperware in hand.

"I'm just going to drop this off," he said, kissing my forehead. "Be right back."

I watched from the window as he crossed the street. Brooke met him at the door. She didn't just take the soup. She pulled him in by his tie and kissed him.

He didn't pull away. He shouldered the door shut behind him.

My phone pinged. A text from Harrison.

Harrison: Get ready. Tomorrow night. Just us. The yacht. I want to make it up to you.

I looked at the closed door across the street.

"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Let's go to the yacht."

Ava POV

The limousine smelled of rich leather and Harrison's guilt.

He sat across from me, pouring vintage champagne. He was wearing his tuxedo, the same one he wore to the Gala where we had first met. He looked like a prince.

"To us," he said, raising his glass with practiced ease. "To fresh starts."

I stared at him. "To the truth," I said.

He paused, then smiled tightly. "To the truth."

We clinked glasses. I took a sip. It was crisp, expensive, and laced with something faintly bitter.

"Where is Brooke tonight?" I asked, watching him over the crystal rim.

"Safe," he said dismissively. "Working."

"Working on what? Destroying families?"

Harrison sighed, putting his glass down with a sharp clink. "Ava, don't start. I'm trying here. Can't we just have one night?"

The limo pulled up to the marina. The Lady Vengeance, Harrison's yacht, bobbed in the dark water, lit up like a Christmas tree.

We boarded. The deck was set for dinner. Candlelight, white roses. It was beautiful. And it was a complete lie.

We ate in silence. I felt heavy. My limbs were starting to tingle. My eyelids felt like lead weights.

"Are you okay?" Harrison asked, his voice swimming in and out of focus.

"Tired," I slurred. "Dizzy."

"Maybe you should lie down," he said. He didn't sound surprised. He sounded relieved. "Go to the cabin. I'll join you in a bit."

He helped me down the stairs. The cabin was cool and dark. I collapsed onto the bed, the world spinning violently.

Drug, my mind screamed through the haze. He drugged the drink.

I fought the darkness. I bit my tongue until I tasted copper. I needed pain to stay awake.

I heard footsteps above. Not just Harrison's. High heels. Laughter.

I dragged myself off the bed. I crawled to the stairs. Every movement was a war against gravity. I pulled myself up, step by agonizing step.

I peeked over the edge of the hatch.

The romantic dinner table had been cleared. In its place stood a small group of people-Harrison's inner circle. And in the center, bathed in the soft glow of the deck lights, was Brooke.

She was wearing a silver dress that shimmered like fish scales. Harrison was on one knee in front of her.

He held a velvet box. Inside sat a diamond the size of a quail egg. It was the ancestral diamond of the Phelps family. The one he had told me was 'in a vault for safekeeping'. The one I was never allowed to wear.

"Brooke," Harrison said, his voice carrying over the water. "You are my partner. My equal. Will you marry me?"

Brooke threw her head back and laughed, a sound of pure victory. "Yes! Yes, Harry!"

The men clapped. They cheered.

I watched as he slid the ring onto her finger. The ring that should have been mine.

I stumbled. My foot hit a metal cleat with a loud clang.

The cheering stopped. All heads turned toward the hatch.

I stood there, swaying, holding onto the railing for dear life.

"Ava?" Harrison stood up, his face draining of color. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"Used... goods," I mumbled, pointing a shaking finger at Brooke.

Brooke smirked. She walked over to Harrison and looped her arm through his, resting her hand on his chest so the diamond caught the light.

"Go back to bed, sweetie," Brooke cooed. "The grown-ups are talking."

"You..." I looked at Harrison. "You drugged me... for this?"

"I couldn't have you making a scene," Harrison said, his voice cold again. "Brooke is pregnant, Ava. She carries my son. This is necessary."

The world tilted.

Pregnant.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. The drug pulled me down, down into the black water of unconsciousness. But before I went under, I made a vow of my own.

I wasn't going to just leave him. I was going to burn his entire world to ash.

Ava POV

The next morning, I woke in the silence of the cabin, alone.

The yacht was docked. The party was over.

I checked my phone. The screen was blank, wiped clean. Factory reset. My contacts, my photos, my evidence-all of it erased as if it had never existed.

Smart.

I walked off the boat and didn't look back. I didn't go home. Instead, I went to a public library and logged into a secure cloud server I had built years ago, back when I was just Ava the computer science student, not Ava the Trophy Wife.

I recovered my texts. I found the ones Harrison had sent to Dustin, impersonating me.

Don't contact me again. You're a junkie. You're dead to me.

A cold, sharp rage crystallized in my chest. He hadn't just isolated me; he had amputated my family.

I took a cab to the estate. I needed one thing before I left for good: my father's wooden box. It held his dog tags and my mother's locket. It was the only thing of real value I had ever owned.

I walked into the house. It was quiet.

I went to the master bedroom. The box was usually on the top shelf of the closet.

It was gone.

I turned around. Brooke was standing in the doorway.

She was wearing my silk robe. My robe. And in her hands, she held the wooden box.

"Looking for this?" she asked, tossing it casually in the air.

"Give it to me," I said, my voice low.

"It's full of junk," she sneered, opening it. She pulled out the locket. "Cheap silver. Tacky."

"That was my mother's."

"The one who died because she couldn't drive?" Brooke laughed. "Harrison told me. Sad. But then, weak women breed weak daughters."

She let the locket drop. It hit the floor with a dull ping. Then, maintaining eye contact, she crushed it under her heel.

Something snapped inside me.

I didn't think. I launched myself at her.

I tackled her to the ground. We rolled, crashing into the vanity. I grabbed the box, ripping it from her hands. Her nails raked across my cheek, digging deep.

"Get off me!" she shrieked.

I stood up, clutching the box to my chest, breathing hard.

Brooke lay on the floor. She wasn't hurt. I hadn't hit her. I had just taken back what was mine.

But then she smiled. A wicked, calculating smile that didn't reach her eyes.

With a sudden, violent jerk, she ripped the neckline of her own dress. She scratched her own neck, drawing blood. Then she started screaming.

"Help! Harrison! Help! She's killing the baby!"

Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, shaking the floorboards.

Harrison burst into the room. He took in the scene: Brooke on the floor, weeping, clutching her stomach; me standing over her, wild-eyed, holding a box.

"She pushed me!" Brooke sobbed. "She tried to kick me in the stomach, Harry! She wants to kill our son!"

Harrison looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. No hesitation. Just pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You animal," he spat.

He crossed the room in two strides. He didn't check on Brooke. He came for me.

He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall. The box fell from my hands, spilling its contents across the floor.

"I gave you everything," he hissed, squeezing. Black spots danced in my vision. "And you try to kill my heir?"

"She... lied," I gasped, clawing uselessly at his hand.

"Get out," he said, releasing me so suddenly I crumpled to the floor. "Get out before I kill you myself."

I scrambled to pick up the dog tags.

"Leave it!" he roared. He kicked the tags away, sending them skittering across the hardwood. "You leave with nothing. Because you are nothing."

I looked at him. Then I looked at Brooke, who was watching us through her fingers, a smirk playing on her lips.

I stood up. I didn't grab the tags. I didn't grab the locket.

I walked to the door. I stopped and looked back at the man I had married.

"You're right, Harrison," I said, my voice steady for the first time in days. "I am nothing. And you can't kill a ghost."

I walked out the front door.

I pulled the burner phone I had bought at the library from my pocket. I dialed the number Dustin had sent me years ago.

"This is Agent Peterson," a voice answered. My brother.

"Dustin," I said. "It's Ava. I'm ready to work."

"About time," he said. "We have a jet waiting. And Ava?"

"Yeah?"

"Burn it down."

"I intend to," I said.

As I walked down the long driveway, I heard sirens wailing in the distance. Harrison had called the police. He wanted me arrested.

But he was too late. Ava the Wife had died in that foyer.

The Ghost was just born.