Chapter 26 Avah
AVAH
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror in a towel, mascara wand in hand, trying to decide if I look like I have my life together, or if I’ve been faking it so convincingly I might believe my own performance.
Three days have come and gone since Steamboat and the cargo net and realizing I’m in love with Jeremy Winslow.
I almost said it out loud on the drive home when he laced his fingers through mine like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then on the phone last night, when his voice dropped low around my name as he told me he needed to catch an early flight back to California for some nonprofit board meeting.
I didn’t say it. Saying it would make it real.
And real means I’d have to deal with every ugly thing I’ve been keeping in a box shoved into the deep recesses of my soul—my father and Jon and the fact that I told myself I wouldn’t fall again.
Definitely not for a man who could use his power to crush all of us, if my secrets don’t crush me first.
I apply mascara and blink at my reflection. I waited years to tell Jon the truth about my family. And from that moment on, he used it as ammunition against me. You’re lucky I don’t care about your past. The implication that my secrets made me damaged goods and he was benevolently overlooking them.
I’m so tired of secrets. They rot you from the inside, and by the time anyone notices the stink, there’s nothing left to salvage.
The rational part of my brain says it’s too soon for love, but what I feel for Jeremy isn’t practical or safe or any of the things I told myself I needed.
It makes me want to be the version of myself I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. I want to be vulnerable and feel joy and stop wielding words like weapons.
What if I sat across from Jeremy and put every awful piece of my history on the table? Can I trust that he won’t weaponize it against me? Maybe I could lean into his power and let him handle my ugly past the way billionaires handle problems, scorching the earth until nothing remains.
But that could be side-stepping one disaster and faceplanting into another.
My mother married my father because she believed wealth was protection, and she paid far too high a price.
I stayed with Jon because his family’s connections felt like a shield, but they did nothing when he turned his fists on me.
If I ask Jeremy to clean up my mess, I’m part of the same cycle I swore I’d break, just with a better man and a bigger bank account.
I want to stand on my own and manage my own way, without trading pieces of myself for safety. And I want to believe I can tell Jeremy the truth and he’ll still look at me the way he did on top of that cargo net—like I’m the bravest person he’s ever met, even when I’m terrified.
My book club friends are going to figure out the truth eventually. Keeping secrets from women who’ve laid their entire lives bare through bucket list challenges feels like a betrayal I can’t stomach much longer, even though I know they’ll love me through anything.
I finish my makeup, pull on jeans and a fitted black top, then grab my bag.
Tonight I’m having dinner at the Pinecone Grill with the girls.
Iris’s brother, Nick, who runs the diner, is testing new menu items and we’re his guinea pigs.
Free food and unsolicited opinions—two things this group has elevated to an art form.
I need a night that’s just laughter and wine and stuffing myself with Nick’s delicious food like it will fill the empty spaces inside me.
A knock at the door stops me halfway across the living room.
My pulse kicks before my brain catches up.
Jeremy flew to California this morning, but maybe his plans changed?
Maybe he’s here instead. I want him to be here with an intensity that should embarrass me.
The desperate craving to see his face, feel his hand at the small of my back, hear him say my name in that way that makes my skin hum.
He’ll be back by the weekend, but my heart doesn’t give a damn about rational timelines.
I know I’m helping him become more of who he already is under all that armor, and I want to believe he feels more for me than simple gratitude and lust. The NorthStar partnership is the first time he’s taken such a hands-on role, and it looks good on him.
It’s more than that, though. We’re good together.
And if he’s standing on the other side of that door, I’m going to be brave and tell him I love him.
I open the door with a smile already forming, but it disappears in an instant. Because it’s not Jeremey standing on my landing.
The sport coat Jon is wearing costs more than two months of my current salary. I know because I bought it for him. His dark hair is gelled within an inch of its life, his jaw freshly shaven. The guy is all spit and polish, but he can’t hide the stench that clings to him. Not from me any longer.
“Avah.” His voice is measured, the tone he uses in a staff meeting when he’s about to deliver a seething set down wrapped in a compliment. “We need to talk.”
“Fuck off.” I go to shut the door in his face, but he catches the edge with one hand and steps inside like he still has a right to any space I occupy.
“Get out.”
He scans the apartment, likely calculating the distance between this life and the one I had with him. He thinks the math is in his favor.
“This is where you’re living.” His condescending tone is like nails on a chalkboard.
“An upgrade on every level.” I cross my arms, because I don’t like the way his gaze holds on me. “To be honest, I could be sleeping in my car and I’d still be happier than I ever was with you. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second I see that flash of familiar cruelty, but he covers it with a smile that doesn’t look like anything more than muscle memory.
“Your father came to see me last week.” He speaks as if he’s mentioning a mutual acquaintance and not the man whose existence I spent fifteen years trying to forget. “Charming guy, for an ex-con. Really knows how to work a room.”
The blood drains from my head so fast I feel dizzy.
My dad sought out Jon. It’s the waking embodiment of every nightmare I’ve had since my father showed up at the bakery counter with his oily smile and veiled threats.
Of all the worst-case scenarios I imagined, this one is so catastrophic, it didn’t even make the list.
“He has some interesting thoughts on the NorthStar Way families.” Jon straightens his cuffs the same way my dad brushed invisible lint from his sleeve, offering no indication he’s getting ready to deliver a kill shot.
Men like them make the monstrous moments seem ordinary, which is the most dangerous part.
“Cancer patients and caregivers making emotional financial decisions. You know he likes vulnerable people with money they don’t know how to protect. ”
My gut twists. “I want nothing to do with either of you, and I’m not involved in—”
“Don’t fucking play games with me, Avah.
” As his mask slips, I get a glimpse of the beast beneath straining at its leash.
“I’ve done some digging. You’re the one who got Winslow in the door with the Johnsons.
” He tilts his head, the sound of his neck cracking drowning out the heartbeat pulsing in my ears.
“I imagine Jeremy would be very interested to learn that his girlfriend’s daddy is a convicted fraudster who spent fifteen years in federal prison for scamming the elderly.
Not exactly the same demographics NorthStar serves.
” His smile resembles a barring of teeth.
“But close enough. Even you can’t schmooze or charm your way out of that PR nightmare.
Trust me, I know firsthand your charms aren’t that impressive. ”
“Don’t even—”
“I’ve already lost two clients because your boyfriend decided to play white knight and make calls to our firm’s investors after you did your distressed damsel routine. He cost me real money, Avah. So I’m going to make sure everyone knows exactly who you are and where you come from.”
I don’t doubt him for a minute. Jon is a man who would rather break his toys than share them.
But even if this moment is more lethal than the late-night spiral I’ve had about what happens when the truth comes out, I can’t reveal an iota of fear to him.
If I blink, there won’t be anything left of me for the sharks to feed on.
“We’re done, Jon. Get out, or I’m calling the police.”
I start to step around him toward the door, but he catches my arm.
His fingers close with the practiced grip of a man who’s done this before.
He squeezes hard, and pain shoots from my wrist to my elbow.
My instinct is to shrink and try to become a smaller target.
My mother taught me that without ever saying the words.
Children don’t always need instructions on how to survive.
Some examples speak even louder than words.
For one terrible second, I’m seven years old and hiding under the dining room table of my childhood home, weeping silently while china crashes to the floor around me, and my mother tries to hold back her cries of pain.
But I’m not that girl anymore. And I’m sure as shit not the woman who sat across from this man in strategy meetings and laughed at his jokes while bruises faded under concealer.
I’m the woman who walked out of that bungalow and baked my way into a new career. Who climbed a cargo net with shaking arms while fifty people I barely knew cheered me on. I’m a woman who knows what joy feels like, and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to protect all of that.
I bring my knee up hard into Jon’s groin and twist out of his grasp.
The sound he makes is deeply satisfying—a guttural, airless wheeze as he doubles over, both hands clutching between his legs.
His face drops to exactly the right height, and I grip both of his shoulders and drive my knee into his nose with everything I have before pushing him away from me.
Blood sprays across his khaki pants and my scuffed wood floor. His high, nasal shriek would be funny if my hands weren’t shaking so hard I can barely make fists.
“You crazy bitch—” He cups his face with both hands, blood streaming through his fingers, as he staggers backward toward the door.
“Get the fuck out,” I whisper scream then grab his shoulder and shove him through the doorway onto the landing. He sags against the brick building, one hand on his face and the other on his balls.
“If you come near me again, I’ll do worse.” I sound like a full-on badass, and I need him to hear that. I need me to hear that.
I pull the door shut, making sure the lock clicks into place. Jon starts cursing at me through a mouthful of blood, and I don’t wait to hear the rest as I rush past him.
The evening air is cool against my sweaty skin, and I take the stairs two at a time, my bare feet hitting the metal steps hard as I fly down to the alley behind the bakery.
My kneecap aches, and my wrist is marred with the angry outline of his fingers.
I left my purse and keys and phone—not to mention my shoes—back in the apartment I just sealed shut.
But I keep walking, past the dumpsters, around the corner, and onto the sidewalk toward the Pinecone Grill.
I keep my gaze straight ahead, ignoring the odd looks I must be getting from tourists and locals enjoying a perfect summer night on Main Street.
My chest heaves, but I swallow down the sobs that want to fight their way out.
I didn’t let Jon’s violent hands break me, and I won’t let my father’s calculated cruelty define me. I’m not a victim, I’m a survivor.