Chapter 39 Ava
Chapter thirty-nine
Ava
The bulb above me hums, swinging slightly. I’ve lost track of time—how long it’s been since Henry left me here. Hours? Longer? My mouth is dry, my limbs ache, and the stale air is wearing me thin. The dampness on the walls is seeping into my bones.
The door slams open without warning.
I jolt upright, the chain on my ankle clinking as I scramble backward against the wall.
Henry.
His frame fills the doorway, a paper bag in one hand and a plastic bottle of water in the other. His eyes are lighter, blue, maybe gray—but it's like they don’t have anything human in them.
“Brought you something,” he says casually, stepping in like he owns the place. “Figured you might be hungry.”
He tosses the bag onto the bed beside me. A sandwich. Ham, maybe. Cheap bread. The water bottle follows, landing at my feet with a dull thud.
I stare at both without touching them. He watches me, head tilted.
“What, not hungry?” he says, voice tinged with fake concern.
I don’t answer. I don’t move.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, but doesn’t leave. Just stands there, taking up space. Waiting.
I reach out slowly, wrapping my fingers around the sandwich. His eyes follow every movement, a glint behind them like he thinks this is progress. Like I’m softening.
Then I hurl it into his face.
It hits with a wet slap. He jerks back, stunned—but only for a second.
His expression twists into something dark and he lunges.
“You little—”
His hand slams into my throat, shoving me back against the wall. I choke, both hands gripping his wrist, kicking wildly, but the chain on my ankle holds me back. He squeezes harder.
“You think this is a game?” he snarls, face inches from mine, spit flying, breath sour. “You think you get to choose?”
His other hand grabs a fistful of my blouse, yanking hard.
Buttons pop. Cold air hits my skin.
“I said you belong to me,” he growls. “I’ll have you—whether you want it or not.”
His hand jerks down.
Then—
“Let her go.”
The voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Henry freezes.
I blink, gasping for breath, vision blurring. I know that voice. Even after everything. After years and miles of silence.
George.
Henry turns, still holding me against the wall, but slightly loosening his grip.
“Mind your business,” Henry grits out, not turning around.
"She needs to learn.”
Footsteps. Steady. Calm. Then George steps into view, and my heart stutters.
He hasn’t changed much, those eyes, the cold, calculating ones I used to trust—are exactly the same. He’s not dressed in a three piece suit, like always. My stomach drops.
He looks Henry dead in the eye.
“I said,” George repeats, voice low and dangerous,
“Let. Her. Go.”
Henry finally let 's go.
I drop to the mattress, coughing, arms around my chest, blouse hanging off one shoulder, breath coming in ragged gasps.
George doesn’t look at me. Not right away. He just stares at Henry until the bigger man backs off—not much, but enough.
“She’s not ready yet,” George says, like he’s talking about a patient. Or a project.
Like I’m an object.
Henry nods slowly. “Just trying to have a little taste.”
“Next time,” George says coldly, “you check with me first.”
Henry snorts, but doesn’t argue. He glances at me—one last look, dark and heavy, then walks out without another word.
The door closes behind him. Silence.
Then George finally turns to me. My breath hitches.
“Hello, Ava,” he greets, tone clipped and unreadable. “It has been some time.”
My throat burns. Every breath scrapes like glass.
I clutch what’s left of my blouse around me, glaring up at George from the corner of the bed, where I’ve half-curled to protect myself from the man I used to call husband.
The fact that he was once my husband makes me sick to my stomach, especially knowing he played a part in my kidnapping, and probably worse.
“Why are you here, George? Why did you kidnap me?” I rasp, voice raw from Henry’s grip.
His expression barely shifts. Cool. Controlled. The same mask he always wore during fights he insisted we weren’t having.
“I didn’t take you, Ava,” he says evenly, as though the distinction should mean something. “Strictly speaking, that was Henry’s doing.”
I bark a laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“Strictly?” I repeat, voice taut with disbelief. “Ah, yes — clearly, this was just a misunderstanding, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer.
I drag myself upright, my arms trembling, heart racing. I stare at him like I don’t know him—because I don’t. Not anymore. Maybe I never did.
“You’re working with him,” I spit. “You watched him choke me. You let him.”
George doesn’t even flinch. His voice is smooth, calm, and deadly. “I stopped him.”
“You didn’t stop him,” I snap. “You managed him. Like you’re both in on something I don’t understand. Like I’m a piece of a puzzle I never asked to be part of.”
He leans casually against the wall, arms folded, as if the world bends to him. “You’ll understand. In time.”
“No,” I hiss. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to orchestrate all of this and then drip-feed me riddles. Is that why you came back? Why you started showing up again — like nothing happened? The gallery? My store?”
A flicker crosses his eyes. However, it’s gone before I can pin point it.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” I whisper. “You planned it. Ran into me as if it was by chance. Said you were just passing through. Asked about Elijah. About my life. You were already watching me.”
George’s silence is all the confirmation I need.
“You planned this,” I growl, rising slowly. The shackle bites my ankle, a cruel reminder of my limits. Not far. Not far enough.
“Why?” I demand, lower this time. “Why me?”
For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, something like regret passes over his face. Then it vanishes. And back is the cold and heartless man that he always was.
“You were always curious, Ava,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “Always digging. Always chasing answers. So… tiresome.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap.
“You’ll see,” he says. “But not yet.”
I shake my head, fury and fear warring inside me. “You think you’re protecting me?”
“No,” George says, voice silky, precise. “I’m preparing you.”
He turns toward the door, slow, deliberate.
I take one last swing — words sharp, cutting.
“You’re a monster,” I spit. “Maybe worse than him. At least Henry doesn’t pretend to have any morality, like you.”
George pauses, hand on the handle, and finally, a trace of a smile — elegant, cruel. “I’m not pretending, Ava,” he says without looking back. “You just never saw who I truly am.”
Then he’s gone. The door slams.
And for the first time since I woke in this cell, I feel something worse than fear. I feel utterly, completely alone.
***
Sleep takes me in pieces. Short, broken shards of unconsciousness.
Just long enough to dull the ache in my body, not long enough to silence the fear.
I don’t remember falling asleep. Only the cold metal frame beneath my back, the dampness of the sheet soaking through my clothes, and the iron bite of the shackle at my ankle.
Then something touches me.
Fingertips on my arm. My shoulder. Light, deliberate. Almost tender.
“Elijah…” I mumble, barely awake, my mind reaching for comfort, for a memory. For anything safe. But then the smell hits me.
Thick. Stale. Tobacco and sweat. My eyes snap open.
Henry.
He’s crouched beside the bed, leaning over me, one hand grazing the curve of my waist, his other braced beside my head. His eyes are locked on mine, wide and hungry in the half-light.
I jerk backward with a cry, slamming my shoulder into the wall. “Get off me!” I scream.
He smiles. That awful, twisted smile.
“Relax,” he mutters, breath hot against my neck. “I figured you could use a little comfort. That’s what you’re good at, right?”
“Don’t touch me!” I shove him hard, but the chain on my ankle limits the movement. He barely rocks back an inch.
“I said don’t touch me!” I scream again, louder this time.
My voice breaks.
His expression hardens.
“You weren’t such a little saint with him, were you?” he spits. “Don’t act like you don’t like it rough. You’re just another bitch who thinks she’s better than she is.”
I thrash, clawing at his arm, but he grabs both my wrists and pins them to the mattress.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” he growls. “All soft and submissive. Guess what, sweetheart? I can make you do the same. You’ll learn.”
He yanks at what’s left of the buttons of my blouse, the fabric tearing beneath his fingers.
“No—NO!” I cry, struggling violently.
His hands go to his belt. The metal clinks.
And then— A deafening crack.
Henry jerks.
His weight crashes down on top of me, sudden and heavy. I scream, panic overtaking pain.
Warmth seeps across my stomach.
Blood. His blood.
I shove him off me with every ounce of strength I have. He slumps sideways, his eyes still open but blank, red blooming across his chest.
I scramble up, gasping, trembling—too shocked to process.
And that’s when I see the figure in the doorway.
George. Gun still raised. Smoke curling from the barrel.
His face is unreadable. Calm. Almost cold.
I shrink back, eyes locked on the weapon.
“George,” I whisper, voice shaking, throat raw. “Wha… what did you do?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just steps into the room, the gun still pointed in my direction.
“Don’t,” I plead, hands raised defensively. “Please… please don’t kill me.”
My voice breaks on the last word.
George’s expression doesn’t change.
And I realize. I don’t know if he’s here to save me… or finish what Henry started.
George doesn’t lower the gun right away.
His eyes stay locked on me—cold, dark, unreadable.
“No,” he says finally, his voice low. Measured. Like he’s discussing the weather. “I’m not going to kill you.”
I suck in a shaky breath, frozen in place, still half-pressed against the wall.
“Not yet.”
I flinch. “You didn’t have to shoot him—”
His gaze flicks to Henry’s body, then back to me. “It’s your fault I had to,” he snaps, voice low and precise, as if the logic is self-evident. “You always ruin things.”
“What?” My voice cracks. “It wasn’t my fault! You shot him! I didn’t ask for any of this!”
George takes a slow step forward, finally lowering the gun to his side—but not putting it away. I recoil, trying to sink into the wall behind me.
“You think you’re innocent?” he says, incredulous, voice tightening. “You think you didn’t bring this on yourself?”
He’s close now. Close enough for me to see the fury just beneath the surface—restrained, simmering, but ready to boil over.
“Henry was right about you,” he mutters. “You’re… nothing. Pathetic. Throwing yourself at that worthless tattooed man of yours. Just a sad, desperate girl chasing anything that makes her feel seen.” voice dripping venom
My stomach flips. I look away, but he grabs my jaw, forcing me to face him.
“You let him do things to you,” he growls. “Things only cheap women allow. You think that was love? You think he’d keep you?”
My body goes still, eyes wide with shock and revulsion.
“He would’ve gotten bored, Ava. Just like everyone does. He would’ve used you, like the little dirty, worthless girl you are, then walked away.”
Tears burn hot in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I refuse to let him see me break.
George leans in close, so close I can feel his breath.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he says, voice low and venomous. “You’ll see. When he gets here.”
I blink, confused. “What… what do you mean?”
George freezes. His jaw twitches. He realizes too late what he’s said.
I see the panic flare for half a second behind his eyes—and then it’s gone. Replaced by stone.
“Who are you talking about? George! Who’s coming?"
"WHAT DID YOU MEAN?”I practically howl
No answer. Just the echo of my own voice in the concrete silence.
He releases my face, turns abruptly, grabs Henry’s lifeless body by the jacket and starts dragging him toward the door—
when a loud noise erupts in the distance.
George freezes. He drops Henry and yanks his phone from his pocket.
“Fuck! How did they find you so fast?” He whirls around to face me, eyes wide, voice rising in panic. “Do you have your phone on you?”
“What? No! I’m not carrying anything.”
“Wait… they found me?” Elijah is coming for me.
George’s face twists with rage. “Don’t get so excited,” he snarls. “Because I’ll kill you before I let that man take you.”
There’s something spiteful in his voice—pure hatred for Elijah, but I don’t understand why.
Before I can say a word, George lunges forward and grabs my arm, yanking me off the bed with such force I’m amazed my shoulder doesn’t snap.
“If I die, I’m taking you with me,” he growls. “So if your little friends come in here shooting, you’ll be the first one they hit.”