Ava POV
The next morning, I woke in the silence of the cabin, alone.
The yacht was docked. The party was over.
I checked my phone. The screen was blank, wiped clean. Factory reset. My contacts, my photos, my evidence-all of it erased as if it had never existed.
Smart.
I walked off the boat and didn't look back. I didn't go home. Instead, I went to a public library and logged into a secure cloud server I had built years ago, back when I was just Ava the computer science student, not Ava the Trophy Wife.
I recovered my texts. I found the ones Harrison had sent to Dustin, impersonating me.
Don't contact me again. You're a junkie. You're dead to me.
A cold, sharp rage crystallized in my chest. He hadn't just isolated me; he had amputated my family.
I took a cab to the estate. I needed one thing before I left for good: my father's wooden box. It held his dog tags and my mother's locket. It was the only thing of real value I had ever owned.
I walked into the house. It was quiet.
I went to the master bedroom. The box was usually on the top shelf of the closet.
It was gone.
I turned around. Brooke was standing in the doorway.
She was wearing my silk robe. My robe. And in her hands, she held the wooden box.
"Looking for this?" she asked, tossing it casually in the air.
"Give it to me," I said, my voice low.
"It's full of junk," she sneered, opening it. She pulled out the locket. "Cheap silver. Tacky."
"That was my mother's."
"The one who died because she couldn't drive?" Brooke laughed. "Harrison told me. Sad. But then, weak women breed weak daughters."
She let the locket drop. It hit the floor with a dull ping. Then, maintaining eye contact, she crushed it under her heel.
Something snapped inside me.
I didn't think. I launched myself at her.
I tackled her to the ground. We rolled, crashing into the vanity. I grabbed the box, ripping it from her hands. Her nails raked across my cheek, digging deep.
"Get off me!" she shrieked.
I stood up, clutching the box to my chest, breathing hard.
Brooke lay on the floor. She wasn't hurt. I hadn't hit her. I had just taken back what was mine.
But then she smiled. A wicked, calculating smile that didn't reach her eyes.
With a sudden, violent jerk, she ripped the neckline of her own dress. She scratched her own neck, drawing blood. Then she started screaming.
"Help! Harrison! Help! She's killing the baby!"
Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, shaking the floorboards.
Harrison burst into the room. He took in the scene: Brooke on the floor, weeping, clutching her stomach; me standing over her, wild-eyed, holding a box.
"She pushed me!" Brooke sobbed. "She tried to kick me in the stomach, Harry! She wants to kill our son!"
Harrison looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. No hesitation. Just pure, unadulterated hatred.
"You animal," he spat.
He crossed the room in two strides. He didn't check on Brooke. He came for me.
He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me against the wall. The box fell from my hands, spilling its contents across the floor.
"I gave you everything," he hissed, squeezing. Black spots danced in my vision. "And you try to kill my heir?"
"She... lied," I gasped, clawing uselessly at his hand.
"Get out," he said, releasing me so suddenly I crumpled to the floor. "Get out before I kill you myself."
I scrambled to pick up the dog tags.
"Leave it!" he roared. He kicked the tags away, sending them skittering across the hardwood. "You leave with nothing. Because you are nothing."
I looked at him. Then I looked at Brooke, who was watching us through her fingers, a smirk playing on her lips.
I stood up. I didn't grab the tags. I didn't grab the locket.
I walked to the door. I stopped and looked back at the man I had married.
"You're right, Harrison," I said, my voice steady for the first time in days. "I am nothing. And you can't kill a ghost."
I walked out the front door.
I pulled the burner phone I had bought at the library from my pocket. I dialed the number Dustin had sent me years ago.
"This is Agent Peterson," a voice answered. My brother.
"Dustin," I said. "It's Ava. I'm ready to work."
"About time," he said. "We have a jet waiting. And Ava?"
"Yeah?"
"Burn it down."
"I intend to," I said.
As I walked down the long driveway, I heard sirens wailing in the distance. Harrison had called the police. He wanted me arrested.
But he was too late. Ava the Wife had died in that foyer.
The Ghost was just born.
