Ava's POV
The harassment starts small, almost dismissible as coincidence until the pattern becomes undeniable.
Monday morning, I discover all four of my car tires slashed in the municipal building parking lot, the rubber shredded with surgical precision.
Security claims the cameras malfunctioned overnight—a convenient technical failure that leaves no evidence of who wanted to strand me here.
"Probably just vandalism," the security guard tells me with practiced indifference. "Happens sometimes in this neighborhood."
But I know better. This wasn't random destruction. Someone wanted me to feel trapped, vulnerable, dependent on others for basic transportation.
By Wednesday, the attacks grow bolder. I return from a fifteen-minute budget meeting to find dead roses scattered across my desk, their blackened petals creating a macabre bouquet around a photograph of me with my face crossed out in red marker.
The note underneath makes my blood run cold: "WHORE" scrawled in the same red ink.
"The IT department can't trace where it came from," Jordan tells me later, his expression grim as he examines the evidence. "Whoever did this knows our systems, knows exactly when you'd be away from your desk."
The calculated nature of it terrifies me more than random violence would. Someone is studying my schedule, learning my patterns, finding ways to terrorize me without leaving fingerprints.
Meanwhile, Veronica's campaign against me grows subtler but no less vicious.
She schedules me for impossible tasks during major events—demanding last-minute reports due during galas where I'm forced to watch her drape herself over Tobias for photographers while I scramble to meet artificial deadlines from a corner table.
At donor dinners, she positions herself where her voice carries just enough for strategic eavesdropping, whispering about the "unfortunate intern who developed an inappropriate fixation on poor Tobias."
Her eyes always find mine across crowded rooms with predatory satisfaction, making sure I hear every calculated word.
"Such a shame when young women mistake professional mentorship for something more personal," she murmurs to a group of major donors, loud enough for me to catch while serving coffee. " And Tobias is too kind to address it directly, but it's becoming rather."
The psychological warfare is masterful, designed to isolate me professionally while making my presence at campaign events feel like an embarrassment Tobias tolerates rather than welcomes.
Friday afternoon, everything changes.
I return from lunch to find my desk drawer hanging open, acrid chemical smell burning my nostrils.
My laptop sits inside, its screen and keyboard dissolved into twisted plastic by what looks like battery acid. The metal casing has bubbled and warped, making the device look like something from a horror movie.
All my files. Gone. The youth program proposal I've spent months perfecting, budget analyses, policy research—months of work destroyed in minutes.
"Oh my God," Sarah from accounting gasps, covering her nose against the fumes. "What happened?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. The deliberate cruelty of destroying my work, my contributions to the campaign, feels like having my soul ripped out and stomped on.
I stumble toward the supply closet, needing somewhere private to fall apart. The small space smells like paper and toner, blessedly free of chemical burns, and I sink onto a box of printer paper while pressing my palms against my eyes.
The tears come in ugly, body-shaking sobs. Not just for the laptop or the harassment, but for everything—the impossible situation, the constant fear, the growing certainty that loving Tobias might destroy us both.
"Ava?"
Tobias's voice cuts through my breakdown. I didn't hear the door open, but suddenly he's here, kneeling beside me with panic written across his features.
"I noticed you weren't in the staff meeting," he says gently. "What happened?"
"My laptop," I manage between sobs. "Someone destroyed it with acid. All my work…"
"Jesus Christ." His hands hover over my shoulders, clearly wanting to comfort me but aware we're in a semi-public space. "Are you hurt? Did you breathe in the fumes?"
"I'm fine. Just…" Another sob cuts off my words.
He looks toward the door, calculating, then makes a decision that could expose us both. The lock clicks decisively.
"Come here," he says, pulling me into his arms despite every rational reason we shouldn't be doing this. "I've got you."
I collapse against his chest, months of fear and frustration pouring out while he holds me like I'm something precious. His voice breaks as he speaks against my hair.
"I can't do this anymore, Ava. I can't watch them torture you while pretending you mean nothing to me when you mean everything." His arms tighten around me. "Everything."
"Tobias."
"No, listen to me." He pulls back to cup my face, thumbs wiping away tears. "After the election, win or lose, we're going public. No more hiding, no more pretending, no more letting them terrorize you while I stand by helplessly."
"The campaign…"
"Fuck the campaign." The vehemence surprises us both. "I've already talked to my lawyer about restraining orders against Tyler, protection from Veronica's interference, custody arrangements that ensure you're safe."
My heart stutters. "Custody arrangements?"
"I've been looking at houses," he continues, his voice gaining strength with each word. "Neighborhoods with good schools, places with yards where children can play safely. Master bedrooms where I can wake up beside you without shame."
The future he's painting is everything I've dreamed of but been too afraid to voice. "This is all happening so fast…"
"Too fast?"
He takes my hands firmly, his hazel eyes burning with intensity.
"Ava, I started falling for you the day you walked into my office for that internship interview. You wore a black dress and spent twenty minutes arguing with me about urban development policy like you owned the room."
"You remember what I wore?"
"I remember everything." His voice roughens with emotion. "I went home that day and took the coldest shower of my life, hating myself for noticing my daughter's best friend that way."
For the first time in months, I let myself imagine a future where I don't have to pretend. Where I can stand beside him publicly, where our child grows up knowing both parents chose each other despite everything.
"What if we lose everything?" I whisper.
"Then we'll lose it together." He presses his forehead to mine. "But Ava, I'd rather have six months of real love with you than a lifetime of appropriate relationships with anyone else."
My mother's words echo in my mind, about love being worth any risk. "Okay."
We sit on that closet floor making real plans—logistics about moving in together, introducing me properly to his political circle, creating stability for our growing family. For twenty precious minutes, the future feels bright and possible.
Neither of us realizes our time is about to run out.