9. Ava
9
AVA
L iam doesn't answer.
His silence stretches between us, thick as smoke, curling into the crevices of the car, settling in my lungs, making it impossible to breathe. His grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set like stone. He won't look at me, won't say a damn thing, and that tells me more than any half-hearted excuse ever could.
I shake my head, the sharp edge of anger slicing through my chest. "Unbelievable." My fingers fumble with the seatbelt, frustration mounting, heat rising beneath my skin. "You just expect me to sit here and accept that? That I don't need to know anything? That whatever Vanessa meant—whatever you're hiding—is just fine staying buried?"
Nothing.
Liam exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like he's forcing himself to stay calm. But that muscle in his jaw jumps, betraying him. He's tense. He's frustrated. And most of all, he's still not talking.
That's it. I'm done.
I shove the car door open and step out, the cool night air biting at my skin, sharp against the heat crawling up my spine. He calls my name, but I don't stop. My heels click against the pavement, each step carrying me further away from the stifling weight of his silence.
"Ava."
His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it. A warning, or perhaps a plea.
I don't turn around. "Go home, Liam."
I half expect him to argue, to chase after me, to grab my wrist and make me look at him. But he doesn't.
And somehow, that's worse.
So, I do the only thing I can and follow the advice I gave him.
Night comes, but I don't sleep.
I try. God, I try. I curl under my blankets, press my face into the pillow, and count every damn crack in my ceiling. But my brain won't stop. It keeps circling back, over and over, to the gala, to Vanessa, to Liam's face when she asked him if I knew what he was hiding.
And the worst part?
He looked guilty.
I throw off the blankets and sit up with a huff, running a hand through my hair. My apartment is quiet, too quiet, like the silence is conspiring against me. Every shadow seems darker, every sound amplified. I hate this, this feeling of being in the dark, of waiting for the next shoe to drop, of knowing something is coming but not knowing what.
I glance at my laptop, sitting on my desk across the room.
I already know I won't be able to let this go.
Sighing, I push off the bed, grab the laptop, and curl up on the couch, the screen casting a soft glow across my living room as I start typing. Vanessa Chase .
It's not like I haven't already looked her up. I did my homework before the gala. But now? Now I'm not just looking at the curated version of Vanessa. The high-society art dealer, the ruthless businesswoman, the woman who moves through elite circles like she was born to rule them.
No, I'm looking for what's beneath that. The cracks. The whispers. The things she doesn't want people to see.
And I find them.
Lawsuits—settled out of court. Former clients who disappeared from her roster overnight, their names wiped clean from her business history like they never existed. Partnerships that imploded, usually with Vanessa coming out on top.
And then, I find Liam's name. My stomach tightens as I click on the article. It's older, from a few years back, but the headline makes my pulse stutter.
HIGH-STAKES DEAL FALLS APART: WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN LIAM CARTER AND VANESSA CHASE?
I skim the article, my eyes catching on words like breach of contract and legal dispute and hostile takeover . There aren't many details—just vague mentions of a major development deal that went south, of how Vanessa and Liam were supposed to be working together on a project that, for reasons unknown, completely collapsed.
The official narrative? "Creative differences."
But something tells me that Liam walked away. And Vanessa made sure it cost him.
I stare at the screen, heart pounding.
Why didn't he tell me?
The pieces start clicking together in my mind, fitting into place in a way that makes my stomach turn. Vanessa isn't just some bitter ex. She isn't just a jealous woman trying to stir up trouble. She played him. She burned him. And now… now, she's circling back.
To what? To me? To him?
None of it makes sense, and the harder I try to untangle it, the heavier my eyelids become. Sleep tugs at the edges of my thoughts, blurring the words on the screen, turning every passing minute into a slow, weightless drift. After a few more moments of wandering through pages I won't remember, I surrender to the pull of sleep.
Morning arrives in a flood of light, too sharp, too insistent, breaking through the veil of dreams far sooner than I'm ready for.
Sunlight floods through my windows, cutting sharp angles across the hardwood floors, gilding the edges of my furniture like some kind of mockery. The warmth should be comforting, but it's not. It's irritating, invasive, and wrong. The sky outside is a perfect, cloudless blue, the kind of crisp, golden morning that belongs in a coffee commercial.
It doesn't match the storm in my chest.
I move slowly, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, my mind fogged from a night of restless half-sleep and too many unanswered questions. My laptop still sits open on the coffee table, the screen dark now, but I don't need to look at it to remember what I found.
Vanessa. The deal gone bad. The way she buried any real details under layers of red tape and PR spin.
And Liam, who knew all of this and still told me nothing.
With a groan, I arch my back, stretching out the stiffness that sleep left behind. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant murmur of the city—the occasional horn, the low hum of early morning conversations drifting up from the street below. It's familiar, the kind of background noise that usually fades into nothing.
But today, it feels different. Off. Like the silence is waiting for me to notice.
I drag a hand over my face and push toward the kitchen, rubbing at the dull ache in my temples. Coffee. That's what I need. Something warm, something strong, something to anchor me before the restlessness takes over—before I start pacing the floor, trying to make sense of the mess unraveling in front of me.
I set the kettle on the stove, the soft click of the burner igniting breaking the stillness. My fingers move on autopilot, measuring out coffee grounds, reaching for a mug. The familiarity of it, the rhythm, should be soothing, but my thoughts refuse to settle.
Liam is convinced—absolutely certain—that Vanessa isn't the kind of person you cross without consequences. But really, who is? Show me someone who takes betrayal with a smile, and I'll show you someone plotting your downfall in disturbingly creative detail.
If you ask me, I'm not the kind of person you cross without consequences either. And Liam's ex? Well, she tested that theory. Damn her.
I grip the edge of the counter, staring unblinking at the rising steam from the kettle, the tight coil of determination winding itself stronger in my gut.
Liam doesn't want to talk? Fine.
Then I'll get my answers from her.
It's not my finest plan. I know that. But after drowning myself in coffee and choking down an energy bar that tastes like cardboard and bad decisions, I have just enough momentum to push forward—out the door, into the car, straight to the gallery.
It carries me until I step inside.
The silence isn't just quiet. It's hollow, stretched too thin, pressing in from all sides. It settles over my skin, curling at the edges of my nerves, and for the first time, I wonder if I've walked into the lion's den empty-handed.
The glass doors whisper shut behind me, the scents of polished wood and fresh paint settling deep in my lungs. The gallery is sleek, modern, its pristine white walls punctuated by massive canvases that don't suggest wealth so much as flaunt it. A few patrons wander the exhibit hall, speaking in low, reverent tones as if afraid to disturb the art.
I barely see them.
But then again, I didn't come for the paintings. I came for Vanessa.
The woman behind the reception desk glances up, her smile polite but detached, the kind practiced through repetition. "Good morning. Welcome to the Chase Gallery. Let me know if you need any assistance."
I return the courtesy with a nod, a reflex more than anything, before moving deeper inside. My heels meet the marble floor with soft, deliberate clicks as I pass displays of bold abstraction and meticulously framed modern pieces. They're beautiful in a distant way, the kind of beauty meant to be admired but never touched.
Near the back of the gallery, a hallway comes into view, discreet but intentional. A sleek black-and-gold plaque is mounted beside the entrance. Private Offices .
Bingo .
I move without hesitation, my pulse steady, my path clear. No one stops me. Maybe they assume I belong here. Maybe they just don't care. Either way, I make it down the hall without issue, stopping in front of a large, glass-paneled door marked Vanessa Chase – Director .
I don't knock.
I open the door and step inside.
Vanessa is sitting behind a massive black desk, one leg crossed over the other, a tumbler of something dark and expensive in her hand despite the fact that it's barely past ten in the morning. She doesn't look surprised to see me.
If anything, she looks amused.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she drawls, setting her glass down with a soft clink against the desk's glossy surface. "Ava Bennett. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Her voice is smooth, dripping with faux hospitality. Her eyes, however, give her away.
They move languidly over me, assessing, cataloging, as if she's determining whether I'm worth her time or just another insignificant inconvenience to wave away.
I close the door behind me, tilting my head slightly. "I thought I'd take a look at the gallery."
Her lips curve. "Is that so?"
I shrug, stepping further inside. "You said it yourself the other night. I don't belong in your world. So I thought I'd see for myself." I let my gaze sweep over the office—elegant, meticulous, designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, the shelves lined with books I'd bet she's never actually read. "This is quite the empire you've built."
Vanessa laughs and leans back in her chair. "It is, isn't it?"
Her gaze is scrutinizing and cold, but I make sure to match it. "What do you want with Liam?"
Her smile doesn't falter, but she turns a corner of her lip upward. "Straight to the point. I like that." She picks up her tumbler again, swirling the liquid inside. "But you're asking the wrong question, darling."
I arch a brow. "Am I?"
"Oh, yes." She takes a slow sip before setting the glass down again. "The question isn't what I want with Liam." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm something she's considering purchasing. "It's what you want with him."
A chill runs down my spine at the way she speaks, but I don't let her see it.
I fold my arms across my chest, forcing my voice to stay steady. "You don't scare me, Vanessa."
She smiles condescendingly and tsks.
"No," she murmurs, running a manicured finger along the rim of her glass. "But you should be scared." Then, she dismisses me with a flick of her wrist.
The insult is enough to make me want to march across the room and slap her so hard she hears church bells, but unfortunately, that wouldn't do wonders for my public image. And while I'm not exactly losing sleep over what Liam thinks of me, I doubt he'd be thrilled about a headline involving assault charges.
Still, it's clear she's done talking, lips pressed together like a vault of useless secrets. There's no point in dragging this out. So, I turn on my heel and head for the door. Mission failed. Zero intel, zero progress, and a burning desire to commit light violence.
I step out of the gallery, blinking hard against the bright sunlight.
It takes me a second to adjust to the sharp contrast between the cold, calculated tension inside Vanessa's office and the crisp, open air of the city. The sky is the same unbearable shade of blue it was this morning, but now it feels even more intrusive, too bright, too exposed.
My heartbeat is steady, but my fingers curl into my coat pockets to keep them from shaking.
I expected smug arrogance, maybe a silk-wrapped threat delivered with an artificial smile. But this—the way she looks at me, daring me, barely bothering to hide the challenge in her voice—this is something else entirely.
"You should be scared."
I will my shoulders to relax as I move down the sidewalk. I won't give her that. I won't give her the satisfaction of knowing she got to me.
But the worst part is that she did get to me. It's not just about what she said—or didn't say—about Liam. The problem is that she's deeply entrenched in matters concerning me.
Vanessa wasn't just staking her claim on him. She was warning me away for my own sake.
Which means I'm a problem.
I don't know why, I don't know how, but she sees me as a threat. And that means I'm getting close to something she doesn't want me to see.
The thought sends a fresh wave of anger through me, scorching away the last wisps of unease and replacing them with a delightful little daydream of yanking her hair out by the roots. Good. If I'm a problem, then I'm clearly on the right track.
I reach the corner and pause, weighing my next move. Liam's office isn't far. I could waltz in uninvited and drop my newfound knowledge on his desk like an anvil. See how he scrambles when I demand answers. See if he's got the guts to keep lying to my face.
A sneaky voice of reason pops in my mind. He didn't lie! He just didn't tell you everything for your own sake.
Yeah, no.
But I already know how visiting Liam will go.
He'll tell me to drop it. He'll look at me with that unreadable expression, say something vaguely protective, and then shut me out again.
No.
I need more. I need something he can't deny, something that forces him to admit the truth.
And I know exactly where to start.
I pull my phone out, already scrolling through my notes. Tyler might be able to dig deeper into Vanessa's past, maybe even find something Liam doesn't know—something I can use. I'm about to draft a message when my phone buzzes in my hand.
A new text from an unknown number.
I stop in my tracks, a ripple of goosebumps skimming across my arm as I swipe the notification open.
You're getting too close. Back off, or your family pays the price.