CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FRACTURES AND FRONTS

 AVA MONROE'S POV

The next morning, I woke to a message slid beneath my door.

A white envelope, pristine and unmarked, but unmistakably Ethan's doing.

Inside was a printed schedule, our first appearance as a married couple for a charity gala downtown. Six o'clock. Black tie. Mandatory.

No note. No explanation. No apology for how he left things last night.

By noon, I'd spent too much time staring at the dress Diane

delivered, a midnight blue satin gown with a plunging back and a neckline that dared people to underestimate me. Paired with diamonds I didn't own, and heels

I could barely walk in, it was the kind of ensemble that screamed control.

And maybe that was the point.

"You're glowing," Diane said when she stopped by to check on me.

"I'm simmering."

She laughed softly, but I didn't. Because I couldn't forget the look in Ethan's eyes when he said, 'If I let you in, you'll only want more.'

He wasn't wrong.

By the time the car pulled up to the venue, the city had swallowed us whole. Cameras flashed before the door even opened, and the driver

hadn't finished greeting us before Ethan was stepping out, cool and confident in a black velvet tux. His hand extended toward me.

Showtime.

I placed my hand in his and emerged into a sea of clicking

shutters and shouted names.

My name. His name. Ours, together, now, inseparable in the

public's eye.

"Smile," Ethan said out of the corner of his mouth, the side

of his lips barely curving.

"Don't tell me what to do," I replied, even as I slipped my arm through his and struck a perfect pose.

Inside the ballroom, chandeliers rained gold over a crowd of

carefully curated smiles and veiled intentions.

The charity gala was for some children's foundation, but no

one here looked particularly child-friendly. Money and ego filled the room more than purpose ever could.

We mingled. We smiled. We shook hands with people who stared

too long, asked too little, and assumed everything.

I lost count of how many women looked at Ethan with the kind of hunger that made my stomach churn.

And through it all, he played the perfect husband.

A touch at the waist. A whisper near my ear. Laughter that didn't belong to him.

I was drowning in the performance.

Until I saw her.

Tall. Blonde. Familiar.

Cassidy Laurent.

A model. An ex. The woman I'd seen in magazines wrapped

around Ethan like a trophy he never had to polish.

She sauntered over, her red dress clinging to every curve, and her smile dripping with calculated charm.

"Ethan," she purred, her fingers brushing his arm. "It's been forever."

His body tensed, just enough for me to notice.

"Cassidy," he greeted coolly.

"And this must be the wife." Her eyes raked over me like I was a mannequin. "So brave of you to wear satin."

"Thanks," I said sweetly. "It's the only thing that doesn't wrinkle when I lie down in the backseat of a limo."

Cassidy blinked.

Ethan coughed, either a laugh or a warning.

"Well," she said with a forced smile. "You certainly have bite."

"I had to. The last woman who touched my husband's arm

without permission lost a finger."

She laughed, but it was tight. "Good luck, Mrs. Kingsley."

"You'll need it more."

She walked away, and Ethan turned to me with a raised brow.

"Impressive."

"Do you know how many fake smiles I practiced in the mirror

for this?" I said.

"No, but remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Too late."

The gala ended late, but Ethan was in no hurry to leave. He worked the room like it owed him something, and maybe it did. But I kept

watching. Observing. Trying to catch the version of him that only showed in shadows.

And I saw it.

In the brief slump of his shoulders when no one was looking.

In the way he didn't drink much, just held the glass as if it anchored him.

In the moment his eyes drifted toward the balcony doors, the

same way they had the night after our wedding.

Later, in the car, I asked, "Do you still love her?."

He didn't pretend not to understand.

"No."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

I waited. Nothing else came.

"You're not going to ask if I love you?." I said.

He stared out the window. "Not tonight."

I didn't know if it was mercy or cowardice. Maybe both.

When we got home, he followed me upstairs. For the first time, we stood outside my bedroom door, facing each other like…, something.

"You were right," he said quietly.

"About what?."

"You deserve more than control and appearances."

"Then give it to me."

He hesitated. Then leaned in, close enough to feel his breath.

"I don't know how."

And then he walked away.