CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: A DRESS MEANT FOR WAR

AVA MONROE'S POV

When I first laid eyes on the dress, I knew it wasn't meant for romance, it was armor.

It hung on the body of a mannequin in my temporary dressing suite at the Kingsley estate.

Midnight blue silk, dipped in shadow and stitched with metallic threads that shimmered like frost under a spotlight.

It clung at the waist, flared like a secret at the hem, and bared just enough shoulder to whisper danger. It didn't scream bride. It roared queen.

The event was another of Ethan's business gala charities, hosted at the Kingsley Foundation to benefit a children's tech education initiative. And I, as Mrs. Ethan Kingsley, was expected to shine.

"Wear the blue," Diane had said while sipping her morning

espresso. "It makes people wonder if you're a mystery or a myth."

I wanted to be neither. But that wasn't part of the deal.

By the time I emerged from the dressing suite, Ethan was already downstairs waiting. He turned when he heard the click of my heels.

His eyes did something strange.

He stared.

"You look…" He didn't finish the sentence. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he couldn't swallow.

I arched a brow. "Like a woman dragged to war by invitation?," I asked.

"You look like power," he said.

For the first time in weeks, I didn't have a comeback.

Not because I didn't have something sharp to say, but

because I didn't want to say it.

We rode to the event in silence, but it wasn't cold. It was charged. Like both of us were thinking the same thing, but too proud to speak it aloud.

The gala was held in the grand ballroom of Kingsley Tower.

Crystal lights rained from the high ceilings, and a sea of elite guests in

tuxedos and gowns mingled beneath gold banners.

Our entrance was choreographed. Hands linked. Faces neutral.

Photographers flashing like lightning storms.

We played the parts, perfectly.

Then came Caroline Sinclair.

Caroline, the stunning heiress to the Sinclair Holdings empire, had been rumored to be Ethan's match for years before I ever walked into the picture.

judging by the way she floated toward us in a red gown that fit like scandal, she wasn't ready to be written out of the script.

"Ethan," she said with a voice dipped in honey and venom. "You never told me you married a goddess."

I smiled politely. "You must be Caroline."

"And you must be the woman who stole my headlines."

"Only the ones you left behind.

Ethan's lips twitched. Caroline's did not.

She held his gaze for too long. "We should talk later. About the mergers. And other…, unfinished business."

He nodded once, curtly. "Business only."

But my gut twisted. That look. That tone. It had history.

The night wore on. Speeches. Applause. Ethan took the stage

to deliver a brief but eloquent thank-you to donors. He spoke of innovation, opportunity, legacy. He didn't mention love. He never did.

When he returned to our table, he looked weary. Like the weight of the kingdom pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Let's leave early," I said, surprising both of us.

He blinked. "Why?"

"Because if I have to smile at one more person who hopes we're either secretly miserable or publicly perfect, I might start screaming."

He stood. Took my hand. "Let them talk."

We exited through the side doors, where the media wouldn't follow. His car waited outside, engine low and warm.

As we drove through the sleeping city, I leaned back, let my guard down. The night air wafted in through the crack in the window, smelling of rain and smoke.

"Who is Caroline to you?" I asked.

There was a pause. Then, "Someone I thought I wanted once."

"And now?"

"I want less dangerous things."

"Like arranged marriages?"

He laughed softly. "Exactly."

A long silence settled between us. But it wasn't empty. It was honest.

When we reached the estate, he walked me to my door like a

gentleman. Stopped just before I entered.

"You didn't have to fight for me tonight," he said.

"I wasn't fighting for you," I replied. "I was fighting for myself."

He nodded. "Good. You're worth that."

And just like that, I felt something dangerous twist in my chest.

Not affection.

Not trust.

But the possibility of both.