CHAPTER 13 — THE CAFé TRAP （SPRUNG）
Tribeca looked expensive even when it was cloudy.
The café Stella chose had white marble tables, a wall of plants that didn’t smell like plants, and baristas who poured foam like ceremony. Cameras sat in the corners like silent décor.
Stella was already there, dressed in cream, hair pinned back, bandage still staged on her wrist—fresh enough to be noticed, clean enough to be believable.
She stood as I approached, eyes soft, smile careful.
“Ava,” she said, like we were old friends. “Thank you for coming.”
I didn’t sit yet.
I placed my phone on the table.
Face down.
Recording already running.
Stella’s gaze flicked to it.
Then back to my face.
“I’m sorry,” she began.
I held up a hand.
“Don’t,” I said. “Say what you came to say.”
Stella sighed as if burdened by my lack of romance.
“I’ll be direct,” she said, crossing her legs with practiced grace. “I’ll give you five million. You divorce Ethan. Quietly.”
I sat.
I rested my hands on the edge of the table so she could see they weren’t shaking.
“And you’ll do what,” I asked, “exactly?”
“I’ll tell everyone it was a misunderstanding,” she said. “I’ll make a post. I’ll cry. People love me when I cry.”
Her honesty was almost impressive.
“I’ll say the video was taken out of context,” she continued. “I’ll say you never bullied me. I’ll say I was emotional. It’ll calm down.”
She leaned forward.
“And you’ll walk away with money,” she said. “And your dignity.”
I laughed once.
It wasn’t a happy sound.
Stella’s eyes narrowed.
“You think you’re above that?” she asked.
“I think you’re offering me five million to stop you from destroying my name,” I said. “That’s not a gift. That’s blackmail with a softer font.”
Stella’s lips tightened.
Then she smiled again, slow.
“You’re smart,” she said. “So let’s not pretend you married Ethan for love.”
My mouth stayed relaxed.
My voice stayed even.
“I married Ethan,” I said, “because he chose me. And I chose him.”
Stella’s smile cracked.
“Of course,” she said, and the word came out venomous.
Then her tone sharpened into the line she’d been saving.
“You know what you are,” she said. “A substitute. A convenient face.”
I let the insult hang between us.
Then I said, mildly, “If I were you, I’d stop talking in circles.”
Stella’s eyes flashed.
She reached for her coffee.
For a second, I thought she was going to throw it at me.
Instead she stood, lifted the cup high, and poured it down the front of her own blouse.
Cream fabric darkened instantly.
She gasped—loud, staged—and stumbled backward.
“Oh my god,” she cried. “Ava, why would you—”
The doorbell chimed.
A familiar heavy step crossed the café.
Ethan.
Too early.
Too fast.
Stella’s face brightened for half a heartbeat before she remembered to be wounded.
Ethan’s gaze swept me first.
Then Stella’s soaked blouse.
Then the cup in her hand.
His jaw tightened.
“Ava,” he said quietly, “are you okay?”
Stella rushed in, voice trembling.
“She did this,” Stella said. “She admitted it—she admitted she’s with you for money. She doesn’t love you.”
Ethan didn’t look at her.
He looked at me.
I lifted my brow slightly.
A question.
A warning.
I was in control.
Ethan’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.
He turned to Stella with clinical calm.
“If my wife ‘did this,’” he said, “you did something to earn it.”
Stella’s eyes widened, offended.
Ethan’s tone stayed flat.
“And if Ava married me for money,” he added, “then I guess I should make more so she can spend it happily.”
A few people at nearby tables snorted.
Stella’s face drained.
I reached for my own coffee.
Then I stood.
And I poured it slowly, deliberately, right down the side of Stella’s face.
Not a splash.
A statement.
“Now,” I said, voice calm, “that’s what it looks like when I bully you.”
Stella screamed.
Coffee ran into her hair, down her neck, staining the bandage.
I took my phone off the table.
Recording still running.
“Let’s go,” I said to Ethan.
He didn’t hesitate.
We walked out together while Stella sobbed loudly enough for half the café to hear.
Outside, Ethan grabbed my wrist.
“Text me before you do things like that,” he said, half furious, half proud.
“I did,” I replied.
He stared at me.
Then he realized what I meant: the code word. The plan.
His anger softened into something like awe.
“You’re terrifying,” he murmured.
I smiled.
“Only when necessary.”
Thirty minutes later, my phone buzzed.
A link.
Anonymous account.
A “leaked transcript” posted in perfect screenshot format.
Stella’s fake apology.
My line—clipped and isolated:
“With Ethan, I get a lot more than five million.”
No context.
No mention of her offer.
No mention of her pouring coffee on herself.
Just the one sentence, sharpened into a weapon.
The comments were already violent.
They always were.
I took a screenshot.
Then I forwarded the link to Daniel.
Then I backed up the audio file.
And I waited.