Chapter 16
Ava
The ceiling of my childhood bedroom still had those glow-in-the-dark stars.
I'd stuck them up there when I was eight, back when I wanted to be an astronaut before I wanted to be a doctor.
They didn't glow anymore. Too old. Too faded to matter.
Just pale plastic shapes catching the afternoon light, remnants of a girl who used to dream about escaping gravity instead of escaping this house.
Watson was curled on my chest, a warm weight that rose and fell with my breathing.
He'd barely left my side since we arrived three days ago, suspicious of this unfamiliar place, silk curtains, antique furniture, strange smells, and echoing silence.
Every time I moved, his head lifted. Every time I settled, he pressed closer.
I understood the impulse. I wanted to press close to something familiar, too.
The day I left played on a loop in my mind. The fluorescent buzz of hospital lights. Brian's face, bruised and swollen but peaceful in sleep, the monitors beeping a steady reassurance that he was okay. That he would heal.
That he would keep being a target as long as I stayed.
I'd called my father from the hospital bathroom, voice barely above a whisper. "I need to come home."
No questions. No hesitation. "I'll send a car."
The black sedan had arrived within the hour—tasteful, expensive, everything in my parents' world polished to a gleam.
I'd gone back to our apartment alone. I packed my things in the dark, moving through rooms that still smelled like Brian's aftershave, like the coffee we'd shared that morning before everything fell apart.
Watson had watched me from his perch on the couch, yellow eyes tracking my movements with an accusation I deserved.
"I know," I'd told him. "I'm sorry."
The driver helped carry the suitcases down.
I'd tucked Watson into his carrier, listened to his confused meow, the same questioning sound he made at the vet, when he didn't understand why I was letting strangers hurt him.
And stood in the middle of the living room for one last moment.
Brian's books on the shelf. The blanket we'd shared on the couch.
The coffee maker that had witnessed a thousand quiet mornings.
I'd written the note at the kitchen counter. Started twice. The first attempt said too much. The second said nothing that mattered. I settled for nine words and hoped he'd understand.
Not enough words. Too many all at once. Nothing that could explain what it felt like to leave the only person who'd ever made me want to stay.
I'd left it on the coffee table where he'd find it. Then I'd walked out and closed the door behind me, tears spilling down my cheeks before I reached the elevator.
A soft knock pulled me back to the present. "Ava?" My mother's voice, muffled through the heavy wood. "Dinner's ready, sweetheart."
I didn't answer. A moment later, her footsteps retreated down the hallway.
This had been the pattern since I arrived at my parents' house.
My mother knocking gently, offering food, not pushing when I stayed silent.
My father appearing briefly in doorways, nodding once before disappearing back to his study.
Both of them giving me space in a way they never had when I was younger.
I didn't know what to do with their restraint.
I'd spent so many years resenting them—my father's control, my mother's complicity, the golden cage they'd tried to keep me in.
Now they were offering something that looked almost like respect, and I couldn't tell if it was real or just another version of the same old manipulation.
I got up anyway. I moved Watson to the pillow, where he curled into the warm spot I'd left behind. Smoothed the clothes I'd been wearing to appear presentable enough to satisfy my mother's unspoken standards.
The dining room looked the same as it had when I was eighteen.
The same crystal chandelier scattered light across the ceiling like frozen stars.
Same mahogany table that seated twelve but only ever held three.
Same view of the Upper East Side through floor-to-ceiling windows, all that wealth glittering beyond the glass.
My mother had prepared a formal setting. Cloth napkins. Three forks per plate. The careful rituals of a life I'd spent thirteen years escaping.
I sat. Picked up my fork. Pushed food around my plate.
"Brian called the office." My father's voice was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather. "My secretary told him you weren't accepting calls from that number."
I nodded.
"She said he asked her to tell you he's not giving up."
The words landed like stones in still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing the careful blankness I'd cultivated since arriving.
He's not giving up.
Of course, he wasn't. That was Brian. Steady. Stubborn. The kind of man who ran into burning buildings because giving up wasn't in his vocabulary.
The kind of man who would keep putting himself in danger for me until the Langs destroyed him.
"You did the right thing." My father set down his fork. "Coming here. Removing yourself from the situation until the threat is resolved."
"Did I?"
"The Langs are under investigation. Sloane Harper's articles have the DA moving faster than I've ever seen." He met my eyes. "The pressure is building. It's only a matter of time."
Time. I thought about Brian waking up alone in that hospital bed. About the crew watching their backs every time they left the station. About the slashed tires and the threats that came with them.
"How much time?" My voice came out hollow.
"Because they're still out there. Brian was beaten because of me.
The crew is being targeted because of me.
And I'm—" I gestured at the formal table, the crystal chandelier, the silk napkins folded into perfect fans.
"I'm hiding in my parents' house while people I love pay the price. "
"You're being smart," my father said. "Not a coward."
"I'm being useless."
Silence settled over the table. My mother's hand drifted toward her wine glass—her third of the evening. My father watched me with that sharp gaze that had made opposing counsel underestimate him for thirty years.
"I've had cases against men like Richard Lang before." His jaw tightened. "They think money makes them untouchable. It doesn't. It just takes longer to reach them."
I wanted to believe him. I'd spent years watching my father win—in courtrooms, in boardrooms, in every arena where power and strategy mattered. He didn't make promises he couldn't keep.
But I'd also seen Richard Lang's press conference that morning. The practiced smile. The concerned father routine. The way he'd deflected every question about Kevin's whereabouts with the ease of a man who'd been playing this game for decades.
Dr. Rothwell is clearly under tremendous stress, he’d said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. We hope she gets the help she needs.
He wasn't scared. He wasn't even nervous.
And Kevin—Kevin was still out there. Desperate. Unraveling. The police hadn't been able to locate him for days.
"Give it two weeks," my father continued. "The Langs' empire will be crumbling around them, and Kevin will be in custody where he belongs."
Two weeks.
Fourteen days of hiding while Brian woke up alone. Fourteen days of the crew looking over their shoulders. Fourteen days of Richard Lang smiling for cameras while his son grew more dangerous by the hour.
I thought about the life I'd built. The ER, where my value was measurable and earned. The apartment that had become a home. Brian—
Brian, who looked at me like I was worth fighting for. Who had spent four years proving that partnership didn't mean losing myself. Who was out there right now, refusing to give up on someone who had walked away without saying goodbye.
My vision blurred. I blinked hard. My mother made a soft sound of distress and reached for my hand across the table.
"Sweetheart—"
"I'm fine." I wasn't fine. I was falling apart in the same dining room where I'd learned to perform. Smile. Be perfect.
"You'll get your life back," my father said. His voice was gentler now, the sharp edges softened into something almost paternal. "The career you've built. The people you care about. All of it. I promise."
I nodded. Made myself take a bite of food I couldn't taste.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out automatically, expecting another news alert about the investigation, another headline with Richard Lang's face plastered across it.
Unknown number.
If you want this to stop, meet me at Bellini's. Come alone.
I read the message again. Again. The words blurred, then sharpened.
Richard Lang.
It had to be. No one else would send a message like this, would know that I'd do almost anything to make the threats stop.
"Ava?" My mother's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You've gone pale. What is it?"
I turned the phone face-down on the table. Made my expression blank.
"Nothing," I said. "Just Dr. Park asking how I am. If you'll excuse me, I think I need some air."
I left them at the table—my father frowning, my mother reaching for the wine bottle—and walked to my room on legs that didn't feel like mine.
Watson lifted his head when I entered. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the phone in my hand.
If you want this to stop.
Richard Lang was offering me a way out. A chance to end this before anyone else got hurt. Before Brian got hurt again.
All I had to do was go alone.
The phone rang twice before Richard Lang answered.
"Dr. Rothwell." His voice was smooth, controlled—the same one I'd heard on television, at press conferences, in the nightmares I'd had since this all began. "I've been waiting for your call."
My heart was pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. "I got your message."