THE WIFE HE MARRIED FOR REVENGE

THE BENNETTE NAME

LUCA'S POV

Ava knew the Whitmore Gala inside out. She’d done this a hundred times, just never on my arm, never with my ring on her finger. As soon as we stepped in, the shift was instant.

The room’s usual hum of gossip cut out, sharp and sudden. Heads turned. I swear even the velvet curtains bristled with tension. Speculation and judgment hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Everyone wanted to see Bennett’s daughter c***k under the family disgrace.

I pressed my hand to her back and felt how tense she was, like steel under her dress.

“Ignore them,” I whispered, guiding her through the crowd.

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, spine stiff. “No one’s staring at you like you’re a spectacle.”

“They’re not looking at you like that.”

“Oh, clearly you haven’t been paying attention.”

And she was right. I knew what they thought. Part of me expected her to shrink, to melt right into that passive, breakable heiress role I’d pictured for years.

She hardly got ten minutes before the vultures came circling.

I’d stepped off to the balcony, just a quick word with a board member, when I spotted Eleanor Vance pinning Ava near the main bar. Eleanor’s husband spent years trying to beat Ava’s father at steel and never managed it. She swirled her pinot like she might throw it.

“Ava Bennett,” Eleanor cooed, savoring the name. “Or is it Ava Black now? Tell me, how does it feel marrying into real money, after your father lost all his?”

I started back toward them, not for her sake, but because I played point on optics these days, when Ava answered first.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at me for rescue.

“A fair question should get a fair answer,” Ava said. Her voice stayed so smooth, almost warm, which somehow made her words hit harder. “My father built his business from scratch. Fed two hundred families for thirty years. Sure, he failed at the end, name a company that hasn’t lately. Since we’re trading finance stories, though, how’s your husband’s portfolio? I heard that big offshore move in Cayman didn’t exactly pay off for his investors.”

Eleanor’s smile slipped right off her face. She froze; you could see her struggle for a comeback that wouldn’t come.

“It was lovely catching up,” Ava finished, flashing an empty, brilliant smile and walking away, leaving Eleanor stranded and alone.

Ava headed straight for the terrace, chin high, pulse pounding at her throat, but carrying herself like she owned the place. I caught up to her at the doors, stopping to actually see her, the real her. Not just Bennett’s daughter, not some pawn in my own family drama. A woman who’d just taken down an enemy and barely raised her voice.

“I heard,” I said.

“Word gets around.”

“You handled that better than most people twice your age.”

She grabbed a glass of champagne, fingers trembling just for a second. “I’ve had practice. People love throwing rocks at my family. I got over it a long time ago.” She looked sidelong at me. “You look surprised.”

“I’m not,” I said. The truth just slipped out. “I’m reassessing.”

“Reassessing what?”

“What I thought I knew about you.”

She looked ready to say more, but Julian materialized, scotch in hand, smug and grinning.

“That was incredible,” he announced, propping himself against the railing. “Almost made me clap. Luca, you actually married someone who doesn’t fold. Who knew, given your taste in.....well, everything?”

I sighed. “Julian.”

“I’m complimenting your wife.”

“You’re insulting me at the same time.”

“I’m complicated,” he grinned, then turned to Ava, his tone shifting. “Honestly, most people thought you’d c***k tonight. They were placing bets in the smoking room.”

Ava raised a brow. “Did you?”

Julian tapped his glass to his temple. “Of course. I know people better than my brother does. Always have.”

I rolled my eyes, but the banter made things lighter between us all for a minute.

By the time our car showed up, rain streaked the windows. We rode home in silence, Ava lost in her thoughts, watching the blur of city lights, still buzzing from the evening.

I kept my eyes on the glass between us and the driver. The quiet stretched on, broken only by the sound of her breathing.

“Thank you,” I said, barely above a whisper.

She blinked, turning toward me in the dark. “For what?”

“For tonight. For not making it worse. For handling it like you did.”

She let out a small, dry laugh. “I didn’t do it for you. I just got tired of swallowing it.”

“Yeah,” I said, finally looking at her. “That’s what made it good.”

The streetlights skimmed over her, drawing shadows on her skin. The anger I’d been holding onto for eight years, this stubborn belief that Bennetts were weak, soft, spoiled, suddenly felt flimsy. She wasn’t any of those things. She was a survivor in a room full of wolves, not realizing the closest one was right there beside her.

“You can just say I did well, you know,” she murmured, half smiling. “It doesn’t have to be so complicated.”

I shook my head as we turned onto our street. “Everything about this is complicated. Tonight doesn’t change that.”

And it didn’t. The contract was still there. My mother’s story, untouched. The debt, unpaid. But watching her reflection flicker in the dark window beside me, I knew I was lying to myself.

Tonight changed something. My revenge needed hate, and right now, hating her felt harder than anything I’d ever signed up for.