49. Ava
49
Ava
I ’ve been packing for three hours. Even though it’s not move out day, I’ve always been the type to prepare early. Admittedly, this is extra early, even for me, but the packing helps distract me.
I pack yet another paintbrush. I’m starting to think my brushes are reproducing when I’m not looking. There’s no way I came here with this many.
At this rate I’ll need a U-Haul just for art supplies. So much for traveling light.
I wrap another set of brushes in cloth, tucking them into a box labeled “STUDIO” in my messy scrawl.
The penthouse is quiet this morning. Gideon left early for some crisis meeting about Blackwell’s latest attack. The media storm around our “arrangement” has mostly died down after our united front performance, but the legal battle is just ramping up.
Less than two more weeks and this will all be someone else’s problem. Two weeks until I’m just Ava Redwood again. Just boring old me with paint-stained fingernails.
Plus a nice fat settlement, I remind myself .
But was it worth it?
I glance at the wall separating our bedrooms and feel a dull ache in my chest.
Stop it. You’re not doing this to yourself today.
Before I can reconsider, I march across the penthouse to Gideon’s room. Just to check if there’s anything of mine in there. That’s all. A perfectly reasonable thing to do when packing up.
Right.
His room smells exactly like him. That expensive cologne with notes of blood-orange and amber, mixed with something uniquely Gideon. I inhale deeply, letting it wash over me. My heart twists with a pain so sharp it’s almost physical.
Pathetic. You’re literally smelling his sheets like some lovesick teenager.
I move toward his closet, telling myself I’m looking for any of my clothes that might have migrated there. Instead, I find myself touching his perfectly pressed shirts, running my fingers along the soft cashmere of his sweaters.
I wander into his home office. His desk catches my eye. The glass one where we... no. Not going there.
I’m about to leave when I notice the drawer is slightly ajar. The responsible thing would be to close it and walk away.
I pull it open.
Snooping through his stuff now? New low, Ava.
Inside is a sleek folder with no label. Probably just business documents. None of my business.
I open it.
The first page makes my blood run cold. It’s an email from Gideon to... Mark Blackwell? Dated before our marriage even began. My heart hammers against my ribs as I scan the contents.
“...our mutual arrangement should proceed as discussed...” “...after the marriage situation is resolved...” “...media strategy to maximize impact...”
With trembling hands, I flip to the next page. It’s labeled “Media Strategy” in bold letters. My eyes catch phrases that make me feel physically ill:
“...revelations about trading sexual favors for financial backing...” “...used her body to secure gallery space...” “...undermining subject’s artistic credibility...” “...redirecting attention from her work to her personal choices...”
And the timing... I stare at the date on the document until it blurs. These “revelations” are scheduled to drop exactly on the opening night of my gallery. The gallery I’ve already put a deposit on. The gallery that was supposed to be my big moment. The gallery where I’ve already got a small army of designers and PR people working around the clock, surviving on espresso and promises. Where Lucy, who I’m pretty sure hasn’t slept in days, is coordinating lighting installations while simultaneously sweet-talking collectors into loaning pieces that complement my Brooklyn series.
That gallery.
Of course. Because why just break my heart when you can crush my dreams too?
I’d planned the rushed opening for one week before our marriage officially ended. My own little poetic gesture. A farewell exhibit that showcased my work while I was still technically Ava King. Stupid, romantic me thought it might even mean something to him.
And Gideon knew the exact date. How could he not? He’d signed the personal guarantee that let me secure the space in the first place. A bridge loan of sorts until I could cash in the full divorce settlement and pay for the gallery outright, not to mention cover the salaries of the small army helping me get it ready for launch date.
He wasn’t just planning to humiliate me. He was going to do it at the exact moment when I was most vulnerable, most exposed. When everything I’ve worked for was finally within reach.
My stomach churns as the pieces click into place. The gallery opening invitation is probably sitting on Blackwell’s desk right now, with a big red circle around the date and “DESTROY HER CAREER” scrawled across it in Gideon’s perfect handwriting.
My gaze focuses on that damning line, “trading sexual favors,” and my vision blurs. The room suddenly feels too hot, the walls closing in. I can’t breathe.
This can’t be real. This can’t be Gideon. The same man who held me at night, who hung my paintings on his walls, who...
Who made you fall in love with him while planning to destroy you all along.
I hear the front door open. His familiar footsteps echo through the penthouse.
“Ava?” His voice carries down the hallway.
I’m still standing in his bedroom, holding the evidence of his betrayal, when he appears in the doorway. His expression shifts from surprise to alarm when he sees what’s in my hands.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice unnaturally calm.
I hold up the folder, my hand shaking. “I think I should be asking you that. ”
He takes a step forward. “Where did you find that?”
“In your desk.” My cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and fury. “Were you ever going to tell me, or just wait until my gallery opening to spring this on me?”
Confusion crosses his face, then a flash of realization. “Ava, it’s not what you think.”
“Really?” I flip open the folder, my voice rising. “Because what I think is that you’ve been working with Blackwell from the beginning. What I think is that you planned to humiliate me professionally at the exact moment my career should be taking off.”
He reaches for the folder. “Those documents were created as counter-intelligence. We needed to feed Blackwell a believable narrative.”
“Counter-intelligence.” I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Funny how these emails are dated before we supposedly knew about his investigation.”
Something flickers across his face. He’s caught, and he knows it.
“These documents were created to appear authentic,” he says, but his usual confidence wavers.
“Created.” I feel sick. “So you admit you deliberately crafted a plan to destroy my artistic credibility? The one thing in my life I’ve fought for against all odds?”
“Ava, you don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” My throat tightens as memories of my stepfather flood back. “Another man using his power to destroy my future.”
I glance around the room, suddenly seeing all my paintings on his walls through new eyes. The ones he supposedly loved. The ones he hung in place of his precious Rothkos and de Koonings.
Just like my stepfather. Just another man pretending to support me while planning to undermine me all along.
“Take them down,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the hurricane inside me.
“What?”
“My paintings.” I gesture at the walls. “Take them down. I’ll buy them back from you when the settlement comes in. They don’t belong with you.”
His face pales. “Ava, please listen—”
“No.” I throw the folder onto his desk. “I’ve listened enough. I trusted you. Just like I trusted my stepfather, and look how that turned out.”
He steps toward me, reaching out. “Let me explain—”
I step back. “Don’t. Just... don’t.”
The hurt in his eyes almost breaks me. Almost makes me stay to listen. But I’ve been here before, believing a man’s excuses while he systematically undermines everything I’ve worked for.
Not again. Never again.
I walk past him, my shoulder brushing his as I head for the door. The brief contact burns like fire, and I hate myself for still wanting him despite everything.
“Where are you going?” His voice is rough, almost desperate.
“Out.” I grab my purse from the hallway table. “I need air. I need space.”
“Ava, please—”
The elevator doors close on his face, cutting off whatever lie he was about to tell me.
Stupid, stupid girl. Signing a business arrangement that was supposed to change your life, but instead will ruin it.
Somewhere along the way, I let myself believe there might be something real beneath the contract, beneath the clauses and legal jargon. The worst part isn’t even the betrayal. It’s that I still love him. Even now. Even knowing what he planned to do.
And that makes me the biggest fool of all.
The lobby is a blur as I rush through it, past concerned security guards, out into the bright afternoon. The doorman calls after me, but his words don’t register. I just need to get away from here.
I momentarily think about all my belongings still upstairs. At least everything is mostly packed. I’ll send someone to pick up everything.
I make it halfway down the block when the screech of tires pulls me from my spiral of self-loathing. A piano-black SUV skids to a halt at the curb beside me. My heart lurches into my throat.
Great. Now I’m being kidnapped. Perfect cap to an already fantastic day.
The tinted window rolls down to reveal Ray Donovan, Gideon’s head of security. His perpetually stoic face reveals nothing, but I notice his eyes tracking the pedestrians around us with professional vigilance.
“Mrs. King,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Would you like a ride?”
Of course Gideon sent his goons after me. Heaven forbid I have a mental breakdown in public like a normal person.
“Did he send you to bring me back?” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “And don’t call me Mrs. King. I’m Ms. Redwood.”
Ray’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m instructed to take you wherever you’d like to go. And if you refuse, I’m to shadow you until your personal security detail arrives. Security protocols, you understand.”
Of course. Billionaires and their stupid security protocols. I stare at him a long moment.
Well, it’s this or an ugly-cry on the sidewalk in front of Manhattan’s elite.
I remind myself that Blackwell could have watchers secretly recording me at this very moment. But at this point, I don’t even care.
Without a word, I yank open the door and slide into the leather interior. The car smells like expensive upholstery and faintly of Gideon’s cologne. Even his absence is a presence I can’t escape.
Ray turns slightly from the driver’s seat. “Where to, Ms. Redwood?”
I look out the window at the traffic rushing by, all those people living their normal, non-betrayed-by-a-billionaire lives.
“Drive,” I say, the single word containing all the hurt, rage, and confusion I can’t put into sentences right now.
The SUV merges smoothly into the traffic.
I have no destination in mind, just away. Away from those documents. Away from those eyes that looked at me like I mattered.
Away from the mistake of believing, even for a moment, that Gideon King could love someone like me.