Ava’s POV:
I didn’t cry on the train home.
Which felt like progress, given the way I was holding myself together with nothing but the thinnest thread of dignity and a fast-dissolving coat of mascara. My limbs ached like I’d run a marathon, and the sting of Liam’s sheets still on my skin made everything worse, not better.
I didn’t cry in the Uber either, when Isabella opened the door and saw me standing there in yesterday’s clothes, clutching a purse and telling her I resigned.
She didn’t ask. She didn’t have to.
She just pulled me inside and wrapped me in the world’s fluffiest blanket and put a bottle of wine in my hand.
I stared straight ahead for a while. Not really seeing. Not really thinking. Just… empty.
Eventually, I said, “I quit.”
“I figured,” Isabella murmured, tucking her knees up on the couch. “This is very I’ve-been-traumatically-evacuated-from-a-penthouse-core.”
“I left a note. Called him just like the rest of them.”
She winced. “Oof. Harsh.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I know it was.”
Silence.
And then, because I had to say it out loud to believe it: “He was seeing someone else. It’s in the news. They’re saying it’s official—he picked her.”
Isabella turned to me slowly. “Wait. Liam? Picked someone? Voluntarily?”
“Apparently so.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yup.”
I let the word hang there, heavy and humiliating. The worst part wasn’t even that I’d fallen for him. It was that I’d believed him. That I let my guard down. That I thought—maybe—he wanted me the way I wanted him.
“I thought it meant something,” I said quietly.
Isabella didn’t answer.
Because what could she say?
I’d given up everything to build a new life. To become someone else. Someone better. I’d worked harder than I ever had. I’d found meaning. And maybe—just maybe—something like love.
And I’d lost it all.
All of it.
Gone.
In a matter of hours.
“I have to find a new job,” I said. “Somewhere where they don’t know who I am. Somewhere small. Or remote. Maybe in a different country.”
She started to respond—but then the sound of the TV caught both of our attention.
It wasn’t loud, but it was on. Muted. A familiar face flashed across the screen, and my blood froze.
“Is that—?”
Isabella grabbed the remote, turned up the volume.
And there he was.
Jeremy.
Smiling. Polished. In a goddamn blazer like he wasn’t the human equivalent of a clogged drain.
“…and I loved her, I really did,” he was saying, voice fake-sincere, eyes dead. “But Avelina’s never been stable. She’s always used her body to get what she wants. Even back in university, the rumors—”
I felt like I was going to throw up.
“She cheated,” he continued smoothly. “Multiple times. And then when I finally broke things off, she tried to ruin my career. Told my new employer lies. Got me fired. I guess that’s what happens when you reject a narcissistic nymphomaniac.”
Isabella stood. “What the actual—”
“She slept with the CEO,” Jeremy added casually. “That’s how she got the job, you know. Everyone knows it. Liam Duarte handed her a six-figure position because she was in his bed. And now that she’s done with both of us, I just hope other companies think twice before bringing her into their homes.”
The screen cut to photos of me.
Old ones. Some from university. Some clearly taken outside Duarte Enterprises. One was a full headshot from the employee site.
My full name. My face. My past.
All of it.
Every layer of protection I’d built for myself—shattered in real time.
“Okay,” Isabella said, fuming. “We’re going to sue him. We’re going to rip his balls off, frame them, and hang them in the living room.”
“I’m going to be ruined,” I whispered. “Not just me. Duarte Enterprises. They’ll be in the middle of a full-on PR meltdown by the end of the day.”
I buried my head in my hands.
God.
This wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about everyone I’d worked with. The people who trusted me. The department I’d helped shape. I didn’t want Liam to suffer—but that’s exactly what was going to happen now.
And maybe—maybe—I was the one who set it all on fire.
“I need to fix this,” I said. “I need to—”
The doorbell rang, and we both froze.
I stared at it, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. Some part of me—traitorous and stupid and fragile—hoped. Hoped it was him.
Maybe he came. Maybe he wanted to explain. Maybe it was a misunderstanding—
I opened the door.
And my heart dropped straight through the floor.
It wasn’t Liam.
It was my mother. Athena Sinclaire.
Perfectly put together in a champagne-colored coat, not a hair out of place, lipstick pristine. Her eyes—sharp, glinting, and cold—swept over me once, like she was assessing the damage to a product she’d forgotten she manufactured.
“Darling,” she said smoothly. “We need to talk.”