Ave knew better than to act without a plan after what happened in the study.
She'd managed to close the file and slip out before Denise fully entered, making up some excuse about looking for a book. His eyes had tracked her like a predator watching prey, but he'd said nothing.
The next morning, he'd presented her with a gown, emerald silk that cost more than most people's monthly rent, and informed her she'd be his date for a charity gala that evening.
Which was why she now stood in front of the mirror, the emerald fabric clinging to every curve, her bruised wrist hidden beneath vintage Cartier.
The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger. Polished. Perfect. Empty.
"Who are you? Ravena or Ave?"
-----------------
Crystal chandeliers cast light across designer gowns and tailored tuxedos while string quartets provided the soundtrack to a hundred hushed negotiations disguised as small talk.
Ave stood at Denise's side, her smile perfectly calibrated , warm enough to seem genuine, distant enough to discourage familiarity.
His hand rested at the small of her back, a gesture that would read as affectionate to anyone watching.
Only she could feel his thumb pressing against her spine. A reminder of who controlled the evening.
"Mr. Chen, wonderful to see you again." Denise's voice was smooth as aged whiskey. His grip on Ave tightened fractionally as he guided her forward.
"Have you met my wife, Ave? Darling, Mr. Chen is heading our Singapore expansion."
She extended her hand, the bruises carefully concealed.
"How lovely. Singapore must be fascinating this time of year."
The words came automatically, pulled from some reservoir of social graces she didn't remember learning.
The conversation flowed around her market projections, regulatory challenges, whose yacht was docked where. She nodded at the appropriate moments, laughed softly when expected, and felt Denise's fingers dig deeper into her side each time she spoke without being prompted.
Across the ballroom, a commotion rippled through the crowd.
"That's utterly unacceptable, Samantha." The voice was cultured, cold, and absolute.
"The Westwood Foundation does not accept conditional donations. Either you support pediatric oncology research or you don't. I won't have your husband's company using sick children as a tax shelter."
Ave turned, drawn by the quiet devastation in that voice.
The woman was striking, early forties, dark hair swept into an immaculate chignon, wearing a black gown that probably cost more than Ave's wedding dress. Her posture was impeccable, her expression serene, but the woman she'd addressed….Samantha something, a real estate heiress, looked like she'd been flayed alive.
"I... Isabella, I didn't mean—"
"Of course you didn't." Isabella's smile was razor-sharp. "You never mean anything, darling. That's rather your defining characteristic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual philanthropists to speak with."
She glided away, leaving Samantha blinking back tears.
"Isabella Harrington," Denise murmured, his breath warm against Ave's ear. His tone carried a warning. "CEO of Harrington Industries. Don't embarrass me by staring."
But Ave couldn't look away. There was something about the woman's economy of movement, the way she commanded space without demanding it.
Something almost... familiar.
"Ave." Denise's fingers found the soft flesh above her elbow, pinching hard enough to leave marks. To anyone watching, it would look like an affectionate squeeze. "I asked you a question."
She hadn't heard him. She'd been too focused on...
"I'm sorry, darling. What did you say?"
The apology was reflexive, her smile never faltering even as pain radiated up her arm.
His eyes were flat and empty.
"I said, go refresh my drink. And for God's sake, try not to spill anything this time."
The dismissal stung more than the bruise forming under his fingers, but she took his empty glass with practiced grace.
"Of course."
----------------
The bar was blessedly quiet, tucked into an alcove away from the main crowd. Ave set the glass down, flexing her fingers to restore circulation.
"Bourbon, neat," she told the bartender, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Long evening?"
Ave glanced up. A silver-haired man in his sixties smiled sympathetically, his own drink...something amber and expensive—already in hand.
"They always are," she replied carefully, the social mask firmly in place.
He nodded toward the ballroom. "I saw you with Denise. Kingship Holdings, isn't he?"
At her subtle nod, he continued, "Brilliant man. Absolutely brilliant. Though I'd heard he keeps his personal life rather... compartmentalized."
There was something in his tone. Not quite pity. Not quite warning.
"He's very focused on his work," Ave said, accepting Denise's bourbon from the bartender.
"I'm sure." The man's expression was unreadable. "Well, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Blanco. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."
He was gone before she could respond, leaving her with the distinct impression that the conversation had meant something she couldn't quite parse.
But her hands were shaking as she made her way back to Denise, careful not to spill a drop.
He took the glass without thanks, immediately turning back to his conversation. Ave stood beside him, invisible again, until his hand found her elbow once more tighter this time.
"We're leaving in ten minutes," he murmured against her ear. "And when we get home, we're going to discuss your little adventure in my office yesterday."
Her blood turned to ice.
He knows.
"The ladies' room," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll just—"
"Five minutes, Ave. Not a second more."
-------------------
She fled, her composure fracturing with each step. The bathroom was mercifully empty.
Ave gripped the counter, staring at her reflection.
"Who are you? Ravena or Ave?"
The door opened behind her.
Isabella Harrington stepped inside, her movements unhurried as she crossed to the mirror beside Ave. She withdrew a compact from her clutch, touching up lipstick that didn't need correction.
"Lovely event," Isabella remarked, her tone conversational. "Though the Westwood Foundation could do with better vetting of their donors. Conditional charity is rather gauche, don't you think?"
Ave managed a nod, uncertain why this woman was making small talk with her.
Isabella's gaze flicked to Ave's sleeve.
"Oh dear. It looks like someone got wine on your gown, darling."
Ave looked down. There was no wine stain—the emerald silk was pristine.
Before she could respond, Isabella pressed something into her palm. A cocktail napkin, folded once.
"For the wine on your sleeve," Isabella said clearly, her expression pleasant. Then, softer, barely audible: "Don't react. Just read it."
She swept out, leaving behind only the faint scent of Chanel No. 5 and the weight of the napkin in Ave's hand.
With trembling fingers, Ave unfolded it.
The handwriting was precise, elegant:
"Your therapist reports to him. Stop talking."
The wworld felt oddly heavy around her.
Elena. Elena, who'd spent six months earning her trust. Elena, who knew about the bruises, the gaps in her memory, the anniversary dinner. Elena, who'd asked just today: "Where does Ave stop and where do you begin?"
Elena, who'd been reporting everything back to Denise.
Ave's reflection stared back at her , green eyes wide with betrayal, carefully applied makeup unable to hide the pallor beneath.
"How long? How long had he been—"
A sharp knock on the door made her jump.
"Mrs. Blanco?" One of the event staff, her voice apologetic. "Your husband asked me to let you know the car is ready."
Five minutes had become ten. She'd kept him waiting.
Ave smoothed her gown, tucked the napkin into her clutch, and stepped back into the glittering cage.
------------------
Denise was waiting by the exit, his expression pleasant for the benefit of lingering guests. But his eyes... his eyes promised consequences.
As he guided her toward the door, his hand an iron shackle on her arm, Ave's gaze swept the ballroom one last time.
Isabella Harrington stood near the bar, deep in conversation with the silver-haired man from earlier. As if sensing Ave's attention, she glanced up.
Their eyes met for a second.
Then Isabella raised her glass in the smallest of salutes before turning away.
The message was clear: "You're not alone. And you're not crazy."
But as Denise's fingers tightened bruisingly on her arm, steering her toward the waiting car and whatever awaited at home, Ave wondered if that made things better or infinitely worse.
Because if Elena was reporting to Denise, who else was watching?