Episode 6
1196 Words
THE WAR PAINT AND THE WHISPER
The silence that followed Cole’s message was louder than any shout.
Ava didn’t reply—not because she was afraid, but because she wasn’t giving him the performance he wanted.
Cole was a man who needed to be seen, needed to provoke. And for once, Ava refused to be his mirror.
She’d become her own reflection.
The studio took shape faster than she expected.
What was once a shell of drywall and possibility now brimmed with warmth—sunlight pouring through tall windows, shelves stacked with supplies, and art covering every corner like bruises turned beautiful.
Ava called it The Revival Room.
It wasn’t just a gallery. It was a sanctuary. A rebellion wrapped in brushstrokes.
The day before the opening, Ember stood in the middle of the room with her arms crossed and a mischievous grin.
“You’re on fire, Sinclair. Who knew post-trauma glow-ups came with exposed brick and charcuterie?”
Ava smirked. “It’s not revenge. It’s restoration.”
Ember winked. “Same vibe.”
The grand opening buzzed like a secret about to be told.
People poured in—strangers, friends, survivors who had messaged Ava privately, now standing in her space like exclamation points to her journey. The wine flowed. The music pulsed. Laughter echoed off the walls.
And in the middle of it all, Ava stood glowing in a silk jumpsuit and matte red lips that said unapologetic.
Luca arrived late, naturally—carrying a bouquet of daisies and a bottle of her favorite peach cider.
“Do I get points for remembering your fake allergy to roses?”
“You get everything,” she said, hugging him tight.
“Even a kiss in front of your fans?” he teased.
She kissed him right there, in front of a crowd that once only knew her heartbreak.
Because this was her soft launch. And her loud return.
The next morning, Ava found herself back in Mara Patel’s office.
“What you’ve done?” Mara said, scrolling through her phone. “It’s creating real change. I’ve had six more women reach out since your feature. All linked to Cole. All with the same pattern of manipulation and emotional warfare.”
Ava's throat tightened. “Is this what justice feels like? A slow leak of truth?”
Mara looked up. “Justice is rarely loud, Ava. It’s quiet. Relentless. And sometimes it looks like a woman refusing to stay silent.”
Later that week, Ember forwarded her a screenshot. Cole’s tech startup—the one he launched while still dating Ava—had just lost its biggest investor.
Attached was a quote: “We no longer feel comfortable being associated with the brand image.”
It was Ava’s turn to grin.
But just as peace began to settle in her bones, a new message arrived.
This time, not from Cole—but from someone named Sasha.
> Hi. You don’t know me, but I think we were both his girlfriend… at the same time.
Ava froze.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She reread the message ten times. Her heart pounded like it did the night she first saw the lipstick on Cole’s shirt.
> He told me you were “crazy.” Said you hacked his phone. That you were obsessed. I didn’t believe him, not fully—but I didn’t question it either. I’m so sorry. I wish I had.
> I have screenshots, recordings. I’m coming forward. Whatever you need—I’m in.
Ava sat back and stared at the ceiling.
The tangled web was deeper than she thought.
And now, she wasn’t just telling her own story.
She was telling theirs.
Sasha wasn’t just another name. She was a mirror. A reminder of who Ava used to be—a woman questioning her gut in the name of “love.”
They met for coffee the next day, in a café that smelled like cinnamon and second chances.
Sasha was petite, sharp-eyed, and visibly nervous.
“I was twenty-one,” she said, sipping chai. “He said you were ‘ex’ drama. Said you wouldn’t let go.”
Ava kept her face calm, but inside, fury smoldered.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked.
Sasha nodded. “He never hit me. But he... bent me. Twisted things. Made me feel like I was always one mistake away from being discarded.”
Ava knew that pain intimately.
They sat for hours, trading stories, comparing timelines. Their experiences overlapped like bruises on the same body.
And when Sasha pulled out her phone and played an audio recording—Cole yelling, calling her pathetic, threatening to ruin her reputation—Ava knew they had something powerful.
Proof.
Back at the studio, Ava played the recording for Mara.
“This is what tips the scale,” the lawyer said. “With this, we can pursue a restraining order. Possibly even a civil suit for emotional abuse and coercive control.”
Ava’s hands were clammy.
Not because she was afraid of Cole retaliating.
But because she realized—he couldn’t hurt her anymore.
Luca found her on the gallery floor that night, barefoot and sitting in front of a half-finished painting—bold streaks of red and gold slashed across the canvas.
“Is that blood or fire?” he asked, settling beside her.
“Both,” she said.
He gently touched her ankle, grounding her. “You’re doing something brave.”
“Doesn’t feel brave,” she whispered. “Feels exhausting.”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
She looked at him, really looked, and felt the warmth in his eyes settle something in her chest.
“I used to think love meant shrinking for someone else,” she said. “But with you, I feel… full.”
Luca kissed her knuckles. “That’s because I don’t want to fill the empty parts—I just want to be beside them.”
The next few days passed in a blur of headlines and hushes.
Sasha joined Ava for an anonymous panel on emotional abuse, their voices distorted, their truths unfiltered.
#NotJustExes began trending.
And then—finally—Cole’s legal team reached out.
They wanted to “talk.”
Which was code for “negotiate.”
Ava declined.
She wasn’t interested in silence for a settlement.
She was interested in truth.
And truth, as it turned out, had impeccable timing.
Because one morning, Ember burst into the studio waving her phone.
“He’s been dropped,” she said breathlessly.
“Who?”
“Cole. His brand partnerships. His board seat. Gone. They all severed ties.”
Ava blinked. “Why now?”
Ember grinned. “Because someone leaked the audio. It’s viral.”
Ava sat down, overwhelmed. Not with panic—but relief.
Because for the first time in years, he was the one running.
And she was the one standing tall.
That night, Ava stood in the middle of her gallery with Luca beside her, the city twinkling through the windows like a thousand quiet applauses.
“I’m not broken,” she said softly.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re remade.”
- Writer
