Catching Pretty (Lovely Broken Doll #2)

32. Ava

AVA

W hen I agreed to return to therapy, I expected more pain, more choking darkness. I expected to remember more violations on the red couch.

But what I didn’t expect was this.

Perhaps it was because I’d finally remembered the greenhouse that it had unlocked this part of my memories. Who the fuck knows.

I crouched low under the worn workbench in the greenhouse, tangled in a mess of trembling limbs and shattered breaths, the concrete biting into my knees.

The air felt thick, heavy—cloying with the sweetness of oleanders, sickly and suffocating, clawing its way down my throat, rooting itself in the pit of my stomach as my panic pressed in on me.

My pulse pounded a frantic beat in my ears, drowning out every other thought, leaving me with only that question spiraling through my mind.

What had I just done?

Maybe it was reversible. Maybe it wasn’t too late to stop it .

But I knew that was a lie.

Shadows pooled in the corners of the greenhouse, creeping toward me with every second, like hands reaching out, ready to pull me into their grasp.

And yet nothing moved. Nothing dared disturb the silence but the faint rustle of leaves against the glass and the maddening, relentless beat of my own heart.

Each time I let my eyes flicker up to the door, dread twisted tighter in my chest. I couldn’t hear anything beyond the glass, no footsteps, no voices—but I knew they were searching for me.

I’d fled so quickly when I realized what I’d done.

Someone would find me, hiding where my unforgivable sin began.

And when they did…

No. I pressed a hand over my mouth, swallowing a panicked gasp.

I had to flee this place—flee Blackthorn Hall. Now.

But where would I go? I had no one else. And soon, I wouldn’t even have this place. They’d never forgive me.

Never.

Something deeper rooted me in place—fear, guilt, shame, maybe all of it.

“Oh God,” I whispered, staring at my guilty dirt-streaked fingers as the realization sank in, heavier than the humid air.

“What have I done?”

I blinked, and the heavy fog around me began to dissipate. The rough concrete floor softened beneath me, turning to the plush velvet of the red couch, warm against my back.

The damp scent of soil twisted into the lingering smell of tobacco and old wood that filled this room, creeping into my lungs and making my pulse stutter.

The overhanging leaves turned into the softness of Ty’s face as he sat by me.

I blinked, disoriented, my breath catching as I realized I was back—back in the professor’s old bedroom.

My fingers twitched against Ty’s slacks as he pulled me into his lap as he always did, the paralytic ebbing from my system.

I could lift my head now, the weight of it lessening, my vision sharpening.

Ty’s face was inches away now, his expression unreadable, like a mask cracked in places but not enough to reveal the man behind it.

I knew he was waiting for me to speak about what I remembered.

“I… I did something,” I murmured, my voice thin and foreign. Shame curled at the edges of my words. “Something… bad.”

His eyes darkened, and I could feel his gaze burrow deeper, peeling back layers of memory I wasn’t yet ready to touch.

“So,” he said quietly, each syllable carved from stone, “you remember what you did?”

A hollow, twisting feeling coiled in my stomach. I couldn’t say why, but something in his voice, in his carefully measured words, told me that whatever I’d done was worse than I’d ever imagined.

It wasn’t just a mistake or a regret; it was something that had set off a chain of events, a domino effect leading to… here .

“No… not exactly,” I whispered, desperation clawing its way up my throat. “Please, tell me. What did I do?”

“No.” His tone held finality, a wall between us. “You have to remember it yourself.”

“What?” My voice trembled, the fear morphing into anger as I sat up straighter in his lap, gripping his corded forearms for support. “Why can’t you just tell me?”

His face shifted, going from guarded to stone-cold in an instant. “That’s not how therapy works.”

“ Fuck therapy.” My voice rose, raw and strained as I shifted on his lap. “Fuck you and fuck—”

“Ava.” His voice cut through mine, low and sharp, his gaze hardening as he clamped his hands down on my hips. “Stop. Moving.”

Then I felt it. His cock getting hard.

Anger surged through me, fierce and uncontainable. I was losing my damn mind not knowing, torn between fury and desperation, pleading with him and he was sitting here getting off ?

I was going to punch him in his fucking face. No, I was going to punch him in his arm where I stabbed him.

I pulled back my fist, curling my fingers under the way he had taught me.

But I had no leverage pinned down in his lap.

And he was too used to reading my movements. Besides my anger, my glare at the bulge under his shirt where he’d wrapped a bandage around his wound, telegraphed my intentions too much.

He caught my wrist before I could do any more damage to him.

For a moment I fought against him, pushing my arm against his immovable grip, torn between letting my anger get the better of me or pleading again.

But I knew—pleading was useless.

Ty was ice. Unmovable, unbreakable, no matter how much I screamed or begged.

Still, another idea began to unfurl in my mind, a thrill of possibility twisting in my stomach as my gaze flickered to his lips—to that scar.

Guilt shot through me as I remembered how he’d gotten it, the pain he’d endured, the suffering.

I shouldn’t use his feelings against him. I was Ciaran’s, and when this was over, I’d go back to him. Leading Ty on was cruel.

But before I could tear my gaze away, memories rushed in—of pressing my mouth to his scar, tracing the rough edge of it with my tongue, feeling his pulse beneath my touch.

My logic faded. I leaned closer, drawn toward him as though that scar held a magnetic pull.

His lips parted on an intake of breath.

“Please,” I whispered. “Tell me.”

I closed the gap between us, drawn in by the heat of him, my mind short-circuiting, forgetting what I was doing in the first place.

I just needed to feel his lips on mine.

Before my lips crashed onto his, he moved, his hands grasping me by the waist and causing me to gasp.

With a firm, almost careless strength, he lifted me, setting me back on the couch like I was nothing more than a restless child .

“Therapy’s over,” he said, his voice flat, eyes cold and distant.

Without another glance, he stood and left, leaving me stranded in the silence, every nerve aching with embarrassment and longing.

For a moment, I just sat there, breathless, rage curling in my fists.

Something glinted on the floor near the edge of the couch—the empty vial.

The moment flashed back to the start of therapy: my fingers loosening as I dropped it, the glass rolling into shadow, Ty overlooking it.

And he still hadn’t noticed.

I could feel my heart thudding as I reached down, fingers closing around the smooth glass. It was small enough to tuck into my palm. I glanced at the empty doorway, my thoughts racing.

And an idea for escape flared, dangerous and alive, lighting up every nerve in my body.

I didn’t bring it up again. Not during training the next day or dinner or when we leaned over the chessboard afterward.

I let Ty think I had given in, that I had accepted that I’d just have to remember my guilty shame during more fucking therapy. That I’d have to wait yet another week for answers. Answers that might not come.

But I was planning my next move.

I didn’t know where Ty hid his cameras in the bedroom, but I was sure they were there. I knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t leave an inch of the bedroom unmonitored.

So at night, with my eyes closed and pretending to sleep, and the down duvet pulled up to my nose, I practiced hiding it in my palm. I practiced rolling the empty vial along my fingers, swapping it for a small empty perfume bottle in my palm.

It was the only time Ty had slipped up, forgetting the vial the session before when it fell from my fingers and rolled beneath the couch.

I intended to make him pay for his mistake, because I didn’t trust that I’d ever get another chance.

Day after day, I pretended everything was fine, wearing a mask as carefully constructed as Ty’s. He’d taught me well.

Night after night, I practiced my treachery, rehearsing every move, even though each step made me feel like I was unraveling.

It felt like months had dragged by, but it was only seven days before therapy came around again—a week of waiting, scheming, and keeping my plan hidden beneath layers of forced calm.

I slipped the empty vial into the pocket of my silk robe, which I tied over my clean and washed body like a shield.

By the time Ty’s footsteps sounded in the hallway, my palms were so sweaty that I feared the reverberations would make the vial slip as I held it hidden in my palm with my pinkie.

I trembled as I sat on my bed when Ty entered my bedroom, but I hoped that he attributed it to my fear of the drug and my memories. The jasmine of my shampoo was suddenly overwhelming and I fought against the feeling of lightheadedness.

My stomach lurched when Ty’s long, pale fingers shifted into view of my lowered gaze. He held out a full vial, the clear liquid refracting the candlelight.

I took a steadying breath and with the empty vial tucked against my palm, I reached out.

I bowed my head even farther, hiding my hands with my hair and with Ty’s black boots filling my vision, I switched the vials.

I “drank” the empty vial before offering it to him and he smiled down at me as always.

“Good girl.”

Adrenaline was throbbing in my veins, but I knew I couldn’t rush my performance. I let my hands fall first, pretending that the paralytic was taking over, hiding the full vial under my pillow as I “fell.”

Ty kneeled to wrap his arms around me and I forced my limbs into a dead weight as he lifted me into his arms.

I closed my eyes, afraid that he’d see through my charade, afraid that my heart was beating so hard against his that he’d know I was faking.

If I couldn’t fool him now, there was no chance I’d fool him when the therapy started.

He carried me down the narrow passageway to the library and I steadied myself, trying to calm my racing mind.

This was my last chance to prepare myself for what I knew was to come.

I couldn’t bear to think what his punishment might be if he found out I was faking it.