After what happened at dinner, Ave couldn't stay in that house. Couldn't breathe in air that smelled like his cologne and her failure.
So she drove to Dr. Elena's office, a routine she'd started six months ago when the sleepless nights became unbearable.
The office was everything the house wasn't: soft lighting, abstract art, furniture that didn't feel like a trap. Ave sank into the plush chair, her bruised wrist discreetly wrapped in a silk scarf, and let her head fall back.
Here, at least, she could breathe.
She closed her eyes, feeling the smooth material against her skin, the compact support of the cushions.
The shuffling of papers made her eyes snap open.
"You dropped off quickly," Elena observed, not looking up from her notes. The blonde therapist with the delicate freckles finally met her gaze.
"How was the anniversary?"
Ave's eyes flickered to the window. To the abstract painting on the wall. Anywhere but Elena's penetrating stare.
"Perfect. He loved the dinner. We talked for hours."
The lie came easily, delivered in the same smooth tone she used at Denise's corporate functions. The voice of a wife who knew her place. She even managed a smile.
Elena paused. Her pen stopped moving. She studied Ave's face, the pallor beneath the makeup, the tension in her jaw, the way her body seemed coiled tight even in the comfortable chair.
She knows, Ave realized.
"Ave," Elena said slowly, "when you say that, where do you feel it in your body?"
It was Elena's signature move. A way to bypass the lies and access the truth the body kept.
A phantom throb shot through Ave's wrist. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.
"I... feel happy," she whispered, the words tasting like ash. "In my heart."
Elena didn't blink. She leaned forward, just an inch.
"Do you ever feel like you're playing a role? Like you're reading lines from a script you never saw?"
Something cracked behind Ave's ribs.
Her right palm suddenly felt cold, as if she'd just released something heavy. Something metal.
FLASHBACK
The scent hit her first. Clean, sharp pine. So vivid it overwrote the lavender diffuser in Elena's office.
Her breath was steady. Too controlled for a child's lungs. And was fogging in winter air.
But I grew up in California. We never had winters like that. A man's voice spoke from somewhere behind her. Low. Approving.
"Good. Now do it without thinking."
The voice vanished as quickly as it came. No face. No . Just hollow, expert pride that felt nothing like love and everything like the cold approval in Denise's eyes when she performed perfectly at his business dinners.
END FLASHBACK
Ave gasped, jerking back to the present. The plush chair felt like a trap. Her right hand trembled, tingling with the ghost memory of a grip she shouldn't know.
"No," she breathed, forcing her fingers to relax. "I don't know what that was. I'm just... his wife."
The words felt hollow.
But what was I before I was his wife? Why can't I remember?
Elena made a quiet note, the same kind of clinical observation Ave suddenly realized she'd been trained to make about others.
Trained by whom?
"Our time is up, Ave." Elena's voice was gentle but firm. "Sit with that question this week. Where does Ave end, and where do you begin?"
Ave left the office disoriented, her knees weak from memories she'd assumed were buried forever. No, not buried. Locked away. There was a difference.
The drive home passed in a blur. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to leave marks, her mind cycling through fragments that didn't fit together.
The keycard in Denise's coat burned like a brand in her memory. The flashback in Elena's office had cracked something open, and now questions she'd never dared ask were flooding in.
Why did I know that keycard was military-grade? Why do my hands remember the weight of weapons I've never held? Why does "Termination Protocol" make my blood run cold?
The house was empty when she arrived. Again.
But she felt watched. The same sensation she'd been dismissing for months.
Without letting herself think too hard about it, Ave walked straight to Denise's study. The same office he'd always warned her never to enter.
"My work is classified, Ave. For your own safety."
The door opened with a soft click. Inside, everything was sharp lines and dark wood, smelling of his cologne and something else. Something clinical. Sterile.
With held breath, she swiped the keycard on the biometric lock beside his polished desk.
How did I know there would be a biometric lock?
A soft red light scanned her face. A polite digital chime.
The screen flashed: ACCESS DENIED. RETINAL SCAN REQUIRED. ATTEMPT LOGGED. SECURITY NOTIFIED.
Panic surged through her skull.
He'll know. He always knew.
She stumbled back, her hip bumping the desk. The main monitor glowed to life with a soft beep. A single file opened automatically, as if someone had been interrupted mid-work.
It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a clinical dossier.
Her eyes locked on the header:
PROJECT: REAPER
The words drained every drop of blood from her face. Her fingers dug into her palms, cutting into flesh.
Status: DORMANT
And below, a photo. Her photo.
With her maiden name in bold letters: RAVENA GREENBERG
Ravena.
That's not... I'm Ave. I've always been Ave. Haven't I?
The last visible line made her stomach drop:
Conditioning intact. Asset unaware. Activation phrase: [CLASSIFIED]. Monitoring ongoing.
"Asset."
The word echoed in her mind like a death knell. Who was Denise? And why was he monitoring her past?
The distinct, heavy rumble of the garage door opening brought her crashing back to reality.
Denise was home.
The screen glowed accusingly, an unblinking eye of truth. She stood frozen, rooted to the spot as footsteps echoed in the marble foyer.
They were getting closer.
He'll know I saw. He always knows.
The study door creaked open.