Chapter 2

Ava' s hand flew to her throat, a reflexive gesture to quiet the frantic beating of her heart. The name escaped her lips in a hushed, broken whisper, a name that tasted of forgotten sweetness and present bitterness.

"Marcus…"

He heard her through the thin wood of the door. A cold, humorless smile touched his lips. "So you do remember my name. I was beginning to think you' d forgotten that, too."

His sarcasm was a physical blow. She fumbled with the lock, her fingers clumsy. The door swung open, and he stood there, filling the frame, bringing the chill of the night in with him.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice stronger than she felt. She forced herself to meet his gaze, to not shrink away from the raw hatred she saw there. Eight years. It felt like a lifetime. The man before her was a stranger, yet agonizingly familiar.

He didn' t answer right away. His eyes swept over her small apartment, taking in the stacks of books, the mismatched furniture, the faint scent of stale coffee and dust. His gaze landed on a small, framed photo on a side table. It was a picture of them, younger and smiling, taken on a beach somewhere.

His jaw tightened. He stepped inside, pushing the door closed behind him. The small space suddenly felt suffocating.

"You still have this?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. He walked over and picked up the frame. "All of this." He gestured vaguely around the room, at the other small trinkets she' d kept. A seashell from that beach. A worn copy of a book he' d given her. "What' s the point, Ava? A little shrine to the man you betrayed?"

"I was going to throw them out," she lied, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. The journal was still on the floor near her feet, hidden by the shadows. She needed to get it, to hide it.

She moved quickly, kneeling to gather the spilled papers, her hands grabbing for the journal. "They don' t mean anything to me anymore."

He was faster. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, his grip like steel. He pulled her to her feet, his face inches from hers. She could feel the anger radiating from him, a scorching heat.

"Don' t lie to me," he hissed. "I came here tonight hoping for something. I don' t know what. Maybe for you to cry. To beg for my forgiveness. To show some sign that the woman I knew is still in there somewhere. But all you do is lie."

The pain in his eyes was so deep, so real, it almost broke through her carefully constructed walls. He wasn't just angry; he was wounded. And she was the one who had wounded him.

"The woman you knew is gone," she said, her voice trembling slightly. She hated the weakness in it. She pulled her wrist free from his grasp. "And you got what you wanted, didn' t you? You' re out. You' re rich. You have Chloe. What more could you possibly want from me?"

His face hardened again, the brief flash of vulnerability gone. "That' s right. I have Chloe. We' re getting married." He said the word like a weapon. "My grandfather is thrilled. It' s a good match. Good for the family, good for the business."

He watched her, gauging her reaction, looking for a crack in her composure.

"Why did you come back, Ava?" he asked, his voice dropping again. "After everything, why did you show up in my city, in my life? Do you have some excuse? Some sob story about how you were forced to do it? Are you going to tell me you had some noble reason for sending me to hell for eight years?"

He was searching. He was hoping for an explanation, for a reason that would make sense of the betrayal. Her mind screamed to tell him, to show him the journal, to explain about his grandfather. But the words wouldn' t come. The illness, the fear, the years of pushing the truth down, they held her silent. And what if she tried and the words came out wrong? What if she couldn' t remember the details? He would think it was just another lie.

She had to push him away. For good. It was the only way to keep him safe, the only thing she could do for him now.

"Noble reason?" She forced a hollow laugh. "You really don' t know me at all, do you, Marcus? There was no noble reason. I wanted money."

The words were ugly, vile. She felt sick saying them.

"Your grandfather offered me a deal," she continued, the lie growing with every word. "Testify against you, and he' d set me up for life. It was an easy choice."

His face went pale. The flicker of hope in his eyes died, replaced by a storm of pure, undiluted rage. For a terrifying second, she thought he was going to hit her.

Instead, he let out a choked, furious sound. He spun around and swept his arm across the side table. The picture frame, the seashell, the book-they all went crashing to the floor. The glass on the frame shattered.

"Then I hope the money was worth it," he snarSaid, his voice shaking with fury. He stalked to the door, yanking it open. "Stay out of my life, Ava. You are nothing to me."

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the sudden, crushing silence.

Ava stood motionless, her body trembling. Her gaze fell to the floor, to the scattered remnants of their past. Amid the broken glass and torn pages, something white caught her eye.

It was a thick, cream-colored envelope. An invitation.

With shaking hands, she picked it up. Engraved in elegant gold script were the names: Marcus Thorne and Chloe Davis.