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.

Ava POV

The police station smelled like stale coffee and bureaucratic apathy.

I sat on a hard plastic chair, my fingers digging into the leather of my purse. My shoulder throbbed in sync with the erratic flicker of the fluorescent light overhead. I had been waiting for an hour.

Finally, a heavy-set officer with a mustache thick enough to sweep a floor walked over. Officer Miller. I knew him. He had worked security at our Christmas party last year.

"Mrs. Phelps," he said, not bothering to sit down. "We reviewed your statement."

"And?" I asked, standing up. "She stole family heirlooms. She assaulted me in my own home. I want her arrested."

Miller sighed. He looked at the scuffed linoleum, then at the wall-anywhere but my eyes.

"We checked the security footage from the hallway, ma'am."

"Good. Then you saw her attack me."

"The files were corrupted," he said. His voice was flat. Rehearsed. "A technical glitch. Happens sometimes with those high-end systems."

I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that made Miller flinch.

"Corrupted," I repeated. "Harrison got to you already."

"Mr. Phelps is a pillar of this community," Miller said, his tone hardening. "He informed us of your... condition."

"My condition?"

"Post-traumatic stress from the bank robbery. The miscarriage. He said you've been having episodes. Violent outbursts."

The door to the precinct swung open.

Harrison walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened. He looked every inch the weary, devoted husband rushing to save his sick wife.

He walked straight to Miller and shook his hand. Then he turned to me.

"Ava," he said softly. "Let's go home."

"I filed a report," I said, recoiling from his reaching hand. "She stole my father's dog tags."

Harrison looked at Miller with a sad, knowing smile. "See? She's fixated on these objects. It's part of the grief."

"I'm not crazy, Harrison."

He closed the distance between us. He smelled of Brooke. Her perfume was faint, clinging to his shirt like a second skin.

"Drop the charges, Ava," he whispered, low enough that only I could hear. "Or I will have you committed tonight. I have the doctors on payroll. Do you really want to spend the next year in a padded room?"

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

I saw the emptiness behind his eyes. There was no love. There wasn't even hate. I was just a malfunction in his well-oiled machine. A loose screw he needed to tighten.

"You're right," I said loudly, forcing my voice to tremble. "I'm not feeling well."

Harrison blinked, surprised by my sudden surrender. He turned to Miller. "I'll take her from here. Thank you for your discretion, Officer."

He guided me out of the station, his hand firm on my lower back. To anyone watching, it was a protective gesture. To me, it was a shackle.

We got into the car. He started the engine.

"You did the right thing," he said, glancing at me. "Brooke is family now. You don't call the cops on family."

"She's not family," I said, staring out the window at the blurring city lights. "She's a cancer."

He slammed on the brakes at a red light. "She is carrying my son. Something you couldn't do. So you will respect her."

I didn't answer. I didn't cry.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A single, sharp vibration.

I slid my hand in and checked it surreptitiously.

Dustin: Extraction team is green. Midnight. Be at the dock.

I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard. 8:00 PM.

Four hours.

"I'm hungry," I said, keeping my voice hollow. "Can we get takeout?"

Harrison relaxed. He thought he had won. He thought he had broken me.

"Sure, Ava," he said, patting my leg. "Whatever you want."

He didn't know he was feeding a ghost.