As the ride-hailing car drove out of the underground parking garage, the blinding morning light made Ava flinch.
She stared at her reflection in the window, a pale-faced woman with vacant eyes who didn't look like a billionaire's wife at all.
The car turned onto Broadway, and the towering glass curtain walls and steel buildings of the financial district came into view. The sight made her stomach clench.
She closed her eyes, but the images were already projected onto the back of her eyelids.
Three years ago. The chaos of liquidation. Davis Holdings, her father's company, was decimated by creditors after a hostile takeover orchestrated by Carlisle Industries.
Her father, Martin Davis, stood on the edge of the office building. A nauseating silence fell before the fall. Crimson blood spread, staining the pristine white sidewalks of Wall Street.
Her mother was consumed by grief and died two months later in a car accident, which police ruled an "accident".
Ava opened her eyes abruptly. She remembered the phone call. That afternoon, her mother had said she was going out to meet someone, her voice calmer than it had been in the past two months. She said, "Finally, someone is willing to tell me the truth." Ava asked who she was going to see, and her mother only said one thing—"Don't tell Julian." Those were the last words she spoke to her mother. Four hours later, the police arrived.
Ava's fingers dug deep into her knees, her short nails embedding themselves deep into the fabric of her jeans.
She remembered the cold, white walls of the psychiatrist's office. The doctor's gentle, compassionate voice explained "selective mutism." It was a traumatic reaction so profound that it robbed her of the ability to speak.
Subsequently, the Carlisle family proposed a "solution" to quell the ugly rumors surrounding the acquisition: a marriage. A union of victors and vanquished.
She was like a broken trophy, a flawed object, given to Julian to facilitate the deal.
Their wedding was held in the judge's office, quiet and solemn. There was no media, no family members other than his parents. Only lawyers and cold legal documents.
Julian didn't even glance at her as he took the oath. His gaze remained fixed on her shoulders, his face filled with pure, undisguised disgust.
But she remembered the moment he touched her finger—when the judge asked them to exchange rings, his fingertip lingered on her skin for a second longer than intended. That was the only second. Then he withdrew his hand, as if burned. At the time, she thought it was disgust. Later she realized it could have been something else entirely. She just never had the chance to confirm it.
The car screeched to a halt, jolting her forward. The driver cursed the taxi that had cut him off. A piercing horn snapped her back to reality.
Ava was breathing heavily, her chest tight. She pulled out her phone and, out of an ominous habit, opened her banking app. Her balance was pitifully low.
As Mrs. Julian Carlyle, she lived in a gilded cage, but Julian froze all her credit lines. He provided for her "basic needs" through a family account managed by his employees, ensuring she had no financial independence whatsoever. She didn't own a single penny.
The car eventually stopped in front of an old brick building in Brooklyn. This is the Harmony Expression Arts Center.
Ava paid the fare, got out of the car, and was greeted by the cool autumn air.
She looked up at the faded sign, her expression changing. The tension in her shoulders gradually dissipated. This place, despite its peeling paint and worn-out floor, was the only place she felt whole. Here, she was no longer Julian Carlisle's mute wife.
The moment she pushed open the door, a faded old photograph on the reception wall caught her eye. In the photo, her father stood on the same floor, wearing an old suit, holding a sign that read "Community Arts Fund Donor," smiling like an ordinary person. She would stop every time she passed this photo. He had never told her that he supported this place. She only discovered it after the acquisition, finding it among a pile of old newspapers.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her expression, and then pushed open the heavy glass door.
The volunteer at the front desk waved enthusiastically to her. Ava smiled and waved back.
She walked down the corridor toward the changing room, her steps much lighter than they had all morning.
She opened the locker and took out an old pair of black leggings and a faded vest.
She quickly changed her clothes, stood in front of the mirror, and tied her hair into a tight, high ponytail. This movement revealed the beautiful lines of her neck—a dancer's neck.
She picked up a worn notebook filled with choreography notes, her sketches and ideas scribbled on every page. Clutching the notebook tightly, she turned and headed towards the rehearsal room.
She paused at the door, pressing the notebook to her chest. She remembered the way her father had hung the donation plaque on the wall—she hadn't been there, but someone had taken a picture. He had no documents, no contracts, only a hammer and three nails from a hardware store. She touched the notebook's hard cover and pushed open the rehearsal room door.
