The heavy suite door clicked shut behind her, the sound sealing off the past.
Avery leaned against the cool wall of the empty hotel corridor, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pressed her palm flat against her chest, forcing herself to breathe. In, out. In, out.
Calm. She had to be calm.
Her first priority was to erase every trace of herself from that room, from him.
She pushed herself off the wall and walked towards the elevators, her steps measured and deliberate. The mirrored walls of the elevator showed a woman who looked like she had been through a war. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair a mess, but her eyes were steady. Resolute.
The elevator doors opened onto the grand lobby. It was early, but a few guests were already milling about. Avery kept her head down, hugging the wall and making her way to a side entrance she knew led to a row of shops.
A 24-hour pharmacy glowed under a sterile white light. Without a second's hesitation, she walked in.
"The morning-after pill, please," she said to the pharmacist, her voice low and steady.
The pharmacist, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, simply nodded and retrieved the small box. Avery paid in cash, the crisp bills a stark contrast to the turmoil inside her.
At the pharmacy's small water cooler, she tore open the box, popped the single white pill from its plastic casing, and swallowed it with a gulp of icy water. The pill felt like a stone in her stomach, a cold, clinical finality.
This was her first act of defiance. A declaration of war. There would be no part of him left inside her. No possibility of a connection, no weakness.
A cool sense of peace settled over her.
She walked out of the pharmacy and found what she was looking for: a bank of payphones, relics from another era that were perfect for her purpose. She would not use her own cell. She couldn't risk being traced.
She picked up the heavy receiver, dropped a coin in the slot, and dialed the hotel's main line.
"Grand Hyatt, Clara Stone speaking. How may I help you?" The voice was crisp and professional.
Avery recognized the name. Clara was ambitious, always looking for a way to get ahead. Perfect.
Avery deliberately roughened her voice, letting a hint of fake concern bleed through. "Hi, I was just leaving, and ... I think the guest in the presidential suite, Mr. Baxter, might need some assistance. He seemed ... very unwell last night. Drank far too much."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, who is this calling?" Clara asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.
"Just a concerned citizen," Avery said, and hung up the phone.
It was enough. A seed of doubt, a hint of drama. Clara's ambition would do the rest. She would go up there to "check" on the hotel's most important guest. She would be the one to "discover" him. It would muddy the waters, create a timeline that didn't include Avery Harding. It would create the perfect stage for Seraphina to make her grand entrance.
Stepping out of the hotel, the cool morning air of Port Sterling felt like a baptism. It washed over her, clearing the last vestiges of panic. She hailed a taxi, sinking into the worn leather of the back seat.
As the city slid past the window, her mind was already racing, plotting her next move.
The engagement. It had to end. It was the chain that had bound her to him, the legal and social contract that had enabled her destruction.
The taxi pulled through the gates of the Harding estate. The familiar sight of the sprawling manor, the perfectly manicured lawns, sent a pang of longing through her. She had failed to protect this place once. She would not fail again.
Mr. Peterson, the family butler, opened the car door, his face a perfect mask of professional concern. Mrs. Davis, the head housekeeper, hovered in the doorway, her eyes wide with worry at Avery's disheveled state. They were too well-trained to ask questions.
A flurry of white fur and excited yips greeted her as Snowy, her Samoyed, bounded towards her. Avery dropped to her knees and buried her face in his soft fur, the unconditional love a balm to her fractured soul. This was real. This was home.
She went straight to her room and stood under a scalding hot shower, scrubbing her skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of his presence, the memory of his room.
Dressed in clean, soft clothes, she went downstairs. Her parents, Charles and Eleanor Harding, were in the breakfast nook, the morning paper spread between them. They looked up as she entered, their faces etched with concern.
"Avery, darling, where have you been? We were worried sick," Eleanor said, her voice gentle.
Avery sat down, her hands folded calmly in her lap. She met her father's sharp, intelligent gaze.
"Dad, Mom," she said, her voice clear and without a tremor. "I want to call off the engagement to Dominic Baxter."
The clink of her father's coffee cup against its saucer was the only sound in the room. Charles and Eleanor stared at her, then at each other, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.
"Avery, this isn't a joke," Charles said, his voice low and serious.
"I'm not joking," she replied, her gaze unwavering.
"Darling, this is an agreement between two of the most important families in this city," Eleanor pleaded softly. "You can't just ... end it because of a little spat."
"It wasn't a spat," Avery said firmly. "I've thought about it, and I am absolutely certain. I do not want to marry him."
The woman staring back at her parents was not their daughter. Not the sweet, sometimes petulant girl who had been infatuated with Dominic Baxter since she was sixteen. This woman was a stranger, her eyes holding a depth of resolve they had never seen before.
"Did something happen?" Charles asked, his brow furrowed.
Avery shook her head. Telling them the truth was impossible. It would sound like madness, and it would put them in danger. "No. I just realized we are not right for each other. It's that simple."
A long, tense silence stretched across the table. Her father studied her, his gaze intense, searching for a crack in her composure. He found none.
Finally, he let out a long sigh, a sound of resignation. He knew his daughter. When she made up her mind with this kind of certainty, there was no changing it.
"Alright," he said, his voice heavy. "But we will do this the right way. Formally. We will not have the Harding name dragged through the mud."
They agreed. That weekend, they would attend the Baxters' regular Sunday dinner. And they would, as a family, officially request to terminate the engagement.
Avery nodded, a wave of relief washing over her.
It was the second step. The first cut to sever the ties that bound her to her past.
