Donavon' s subordinate, Miller, burst into his office, face pale, phone clutched in his hand. "Mr. Anderson! You need to see this! It' s Ava!" His voice was a frantic shout, completely uncharacteristic of the usually composed assistant.
Donavon looked up from his merger documents, annoyance etched on his face. "Miller, I told you, I don' t want to hear about Ava. She' s dealt with, end of story." He waved a dismissive hand, still basking in the glow of his recent public triumph.
"But sir, it' s a live stream! She' s… she' s at the Hudson!" Miller stammered, thrusting his phone forward.
Donavon scowled, grabbing the device. The screen burned bright with Ava' s tear-streaked face, perched precariously on a high-rise ledge, the river a dark abyss beneath her. His breath hitched. "What the hell is this?" he muttered, watching in horrified disbelief as she spoke her chilling farewell.
Then, she jumped.
The image flickered, then went black. A collective gasp, then screams, erupted from the phone' s speakers. Donavon frozen, his mind refusing to process what he' d just witnessed. It felt like a surreal nightmare.
"Call 911! Get me to the Hudson! Now!" He roared, his voice cracking, adrenaline surging through his veins. He didn' t wait for an answer, didn' t grab his coat. He just ran, Miller scrambling to keep up behind him.
The drive was a blur of flashing lights and blaring sirens. He pushed Miller to call every contact, every rescue service. When they finally arrived at the riverbank, the scene was eerily calm. No throngs of reporters. No frantic searchlights. Just the dark, undulating water, reflecting the city lights like scattered jewels. It was a deceptive calm that gnawed at his gut.
"Ava!" he screamed, his voice hoarse, echoing across the vast expanse of the river. "Ava! Where are you?!" His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror.
He lunged towards the water, desperate, irrational. He had to find her. He had to pull her out. But a hand, soft yet firm, gripped his arm.
"Donavon, no!" Jazmyne' s voice, surprisingly strong, cut through his panic. She had followed them, her face pale but composed. "It' s a trick! She' s always been so dramatic! You know how she loves attention."
He froze, his body rigid. Jazmyne' s words, though cruel, pricked at the edges of his panic. Ava was dramatic. She loved the spotlight. Could this be another one of her elaborate performances? A twisted cry for attention?
He remembered Ava, fiery and defiant, publicly shaming his mistresses. He remembered her theatrics, her ability to command a room, to seize control of any narrative. She was a master manipulator in her own right, wasn' t she? The more he thought about it, the more his initial shock gave way to a cold, creeping doubt.
"She' s probably hiding somewhere, enjoying the chaos she' s caused," Jazmyne continued, her voice gaining confidence. "She probably set this all up to get back at you, to make you feel guilty."
He looked at the dark water, then back at Jazmyne. Her words were a toxic balm, soothing his guilt, feeding his ego. He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. It was easier than facing the horrific reality.
"You' re right," he muttered, his voice devoid of conviction. "It has to be a trick. She wouldn' t… she couldn' t." The words were a desperate attempt to convince himself.
He turned, allowing Jazmyne to lead him away from the river' s edge. Her hand slipped into his, a possessive gesture, and she began to guide him towards the waiting car. Inside, she leaned closer, her perfume, cloying and sweet, filling the small space. Her fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt. "Let' s just go home, Donavon. You' re upset. I can make you forget all about… this." Her voice was a low purr.
But as her lips grazed his neck, an image flashed in his mind: Ava, on her knees, the emerald green dress a crumpled mess, her face streaked with tears, begging for her mother' s life. The sheer agony in her eyes, the utter humiliation. It wasn' t an act. Not then. A bitter taste filled his mouth.
He pulled away abruptly, Jazmyne' s hand falling from his shirt. "No," he said, his voice rough. "Not now." His stomach churned with a sudden, inexplicable nausea.
He grabbed his phone, his fingers fumbling as he tried to call Ava. Her number. It just rang and rang, then went straight to voicemail. Her phone is off, or she' s out of service area. A cold dread began to creep back in. If she was playing a trick, wouldn't she be answering, reveling in his panic?
Where would she go if it wasn' t a trick? Where would she be? The hospital. Her mother. He had to check on her mother. That was the only place she would be. If she was alive.
He barked an order to the driver. "To the hospital. Now!"
The journey felt endless, each second stretching into an eternity. He burst into the quiet hospital corridor, his heart pounding. Her mother' s private room. Empty. The bed stripped bare. His blood ran cold.
He grabbed the nearest nurse. "My mother-in-law, Mrs. Rich! Where is she? Her room is empty!"
The nurse, startled, checked her clipboard. Her face softened with pity. "Mr. Anderson, I' m so sorry. Mrs. Rich… she passed away this morning. Just after her surgery."
The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. Passed away? Surgery? But he had reinstated the funds. He had kept his end of the bargain.
"What? No! That' s not possible! I approved the funds! She was supposed to be fine!" he stammered, his voice filled with a rising panic.
The doctor, sensing his distress, stepped forward. "Mr. Anderson, we received the authorization for funds, but it was several critical hours too late. Her condition had deteriorated beyond recovery. The delay… it was too long." The doctor' s voice was gentle, but the implication was a hammer blow to his chest.
The delay. It was too long. He had done this. His cruelty, his calculated humiliation, his deliberate delay in releasing the funds. He had killed her mother. He had murdered the woman who had always treated him with kindness, who had seen something good in him.
A wave of crushing guilt, cold and heavy, washed over him, threatening to suffocate him. He stumbled back, leaning against the wall for support, his legs suddenly weak. His mother-in-law was dead. Because of him. And Ava… Ava had just plunged into the Hudson.
His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of what he knew. Ava' s pallor. Her coughs. Her gasps of pain. Her desperate pleas to him. He had dismissed them all as theatrics. He had called her dramatic. He had refused to listen. If she was sick, truly sick…
A new, terrifying thought clawed at his throat. He had to find her. He had to make this right. He had to fix this unimaginable mess he had created. He had to find Ava. He had to.
