Chapter 6
Ava POV
The photograph in my hand didn't just burn; it branded me.
It was a snapshot of a woman wearing my face, standing before the Eiffel Tower, wearing a smile I had never possessed.
On the back, in Ethan's sharp, angular handwriting: Olivia, 2014.
I was fourteen in 2014.
I wasn't his soulmate.
I wasn't his queen.
I was a ghost.
I was a spare part for a machine that had broken long ago.
I sat on the floor of his office, the secret panel standing open like a jagged mouth in the wainscoting.
My father was dead.
He had died trying to tell me this.
He had died terrified that I would become exactly what I was-a vessel for a dead woman's memory.
I looked down at my stomach.
My hand rested on the slight curve there.
An hour ago, this curve had been my hope.
It had been the only pure thing in a house built on blood and lies.
Now, it felt like a shackle.
Ethan didn't want a child with me.
He wanted a child with her face.
He wanted to breed the ghost of Olivia back into existence, using my body as nothing more than an incubator.
Nausea rolled over me, violent and sudden.
I scrambled to the wastebasket and retched until my throat burned, until there was nothing left but acid and emptiness.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
The tears didn't come.
Sadness is a luxury for those who have hope.
I had none.
I stood up, my legs shaking but holding my weight.
I put the photos back. I put the letters back.
I closed the panel and locked the office door behind me.
I went to my room and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.
Ethan came home two days later.
He smelled of expensive scotch and another city.
"I am sorry about your father," he said.
He stood in the doorway, loosening his tie.
He didn't come to hold me.
He didn't offer a shoulder to cry on.
He watched me like a scientist observing a specimen in a jar.
"It was sudden," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hollow.
"David handled the arrangements?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
He walked over and placed a hand on my head.
It was a possessive gesture. Like petting a dog.
"You need to rest," he said, his eyes dropping to my stomach. "Stress is bad for the heir."
The heir.
Not the baby.
Not our child.
The heir.
Rage is a cold thing.
People think it's fire, but it's not.
It's ice.
It numbs you until you can do the unthinkable.
I waited until he left for a meeting with the Commission.
I called the private clinic David used for the "girls" at the club.
I didn't use my name.
I used cash I had siphoned from Ethan's wallet over the last six months.
I walked into that sterile white room with a heart that had already stopped beating.
The doctor asked if I was sure.
I thought of the photo of Olivia.
I thought of Ethan's cold blue eyes staring through me, seeing a dead woman.
I thought of this child growing up in a gilded cage, loved only for its utility.
"I am sure," I said.
It wasn't a medical procedure.
It was an act of war.
I walked out of the clinic two hours later, empty.
The physical pain was sharp, cramping and bloody.
But the emotional void was vast.
I had cut the chain.
I sat in the back of the taxi, clutching my stomach, tears finally streaming down my face.
I wasn't crying for the baby.
I was crying because I had just killed the last part of Ava Miller that was innocent.
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