The Devil’s Game
1253 Words
The morning after The Crimson Room was deceptive in its quiet.
Ava sat on the edge of the bed, her damp hair twisted into a lazy knot, fingers scrolling through early morning media fallout. No photos had leaked—yet—but she knew Selene hadn’t orchestrated that evening to be discreet. There would be whispers, planted stories, veiled threats.
She liked it better that way.
Kian walked in from the shower, towel slung low around his hips, steam still rolling off him like smoke from a battlefield. He looked rested but wired—like his muscles were alert before his brain caught up.
“Anything useful?” he asked.
Ava raised an eyebrow. “Selene’s already been busy. Page Six has a blind item about a ‘Manhattan power couple on the verge of collapse after a seductive visit to an underground sin club.’”
Kian scoffed. “We were on the verge of c****x, not collapse.”
Ava smirked but didn’t laugh. Not this morning.
Instead, she looked up, serious now. “What else does she know, Kian? What haven’t you told me?”
He exhaled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I told you the truth. All of it.”
“You left something out.” Her voice didn’t waver. “I can feel it.”
Kian’s fingers tightened around the towel edge. And then he said it.
“Selene was pregnant once.”
Ava blinked.
Not because she hadn’t expected pain—but because she hadn’t expected that kind.
“Yours?” Her voice was steady, but something cracked inside. Not from jealousy. From the weight of history.
“Yes.”
He didn’t elaborate. And Ava didn’t ask right away. Instead, she rose and walked to the window. The skyline glittered like it didn’t care who bled beneath it. A cruel, beautiful indifference.
She wasn’t angry at Selene. Not yet. She wasn’t even angry at the past.
She was angry that he hadn’t told her sooner.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why confess this now?”
Kian exhaled. “Because Selene’s not here to haunt me. She’s here to finish what my family started.”
That pulled Ava’s attention.
“Your family.”
He nodded. “My father knew. About the pregnancy. About Selene. About how it ended.”
His hands clenched. “He told me to cut her loose. Said she was a liability. Not built for our world. And I listened. Because I was trying to prove I was ruthless enough to inherit the throne.”
Ava turned to face him, arms crossed. “And now that you have it?”
“Now they want to take it back.”
There it was.
The real war.
Not Selene.
Not some lost child.
But power.
And blood.
The next morning, Ava got the call.
Not from Selene.
Not from Kian.
From Donovan Thorne.
Kian’s father.
“Ms. Monroe,” the voice came smooth and cold. “I’d like a word.”
Ava didn’t flinch. “Then book a table.”
They met at Le Maison Rouge.
Ava walked in like a question mark made of diamonds. Donovan Thorne sat in a private booth, perfectly framed by candlelight and cruelty.
“You look like Victoria,” he said.
“She raised me better than to think that’s a compliment.”
He smirked. “You’re sharp. I see why Kian kept you.”
She slid into the booth, legs crossed. “Kian doesn’t keep anyone. That’s your style.”
Donovan leaned in. “Let’s drop the pretense. You’re here because I’m giving you an out.”
“Out of what?”
“The marriage. The scandal. The mess. My son.”
Ava didn’t blink.
He poured himself a drink. “You know, of course, he didn’t marry you for love.”
She raised an eyebrow. “We were drunk in Vegas.”
Donovan chuckled darkly. “No. He married you because we told him to. Because your name—Monroe—carries the kind of weight that buries investigations.”
The chill that crawled over Ava’s skin wasn’t fear.
It was fury.
“You used me?”
Donovan’s eyes gleamed. “We used your family. The marriage was the PR stunt. The audit vanished. The press turned. You were a cover story.”
She stared at him.
And he delivered the final blow: “Walk away, Ava. By the gala next week. I’ll make sure Monroe Holdings never sees a single lawsuit. And you get to leave with your name intact.”
He stood, adjusted his cufflinks.
“It was never about love, Ms. Monroe. It was about leverage.”
She didn’t go home.
She walked.
Through the city. Through her thoughts. Through fire.
The neon lights reflected off wet pavement like spilled secrets. Taxi horns screamed like warnings she’d ignored for too long. But Ava didn’t flinch.
She had grown up in sharper chaos.
Her last name wasn’t just a legacy. It was a shield forged in scandal and smoke. Monroe women weren’t made for fairy tales—they were made for firestorms.
At fifteen, she’d silenced a scandal that could’ve dismantled her family’s empire. At nineteen, she’d watched her mother turn a senator into a puppet with a single whispered threat. And at twenty-three, she was the face of a dynasty people didn’t dare challenge in daylight.
She knew exactly what Donovan Thorne was doing.
And she wasn’t going to confront Kian.
Not yet.
Because Monroe women didn’t walk into wars blind.
They made their enemies confess before they struck.
By the time she reached the penthouse, the city had cooled but her mind hadn’t. She walked in, calm, collected—like nothing had changed. Like her heart wasn’t aching in places no one could see.
Kian was at the bar, fingers tight around a glass of something too expensive and not nearly strong enough.
“Hey,” he said, looking up with a faint smile. “I was starting to think I’d need to call the NYPD.”
She walked over, kissed his cheek. “You’d be disappointed. I’m not the damsel they’re trained to recover.”
He smirked, easing. “No, you’re the storm they’re warned about.”
Ava said nothing.
Instead, she moved to the window, staring at the skyline like it might confess the sins her husband wouldn’t.
Say it, she thought. Tell me the part I already know. Tell me what your father told me. Tell me you picked me before they ordered you to.
But he didn’t.
He joined her at the window, wrapping an arm around her waist. His touch was warm, familiar… yet it didn’t sink deep enough to reach the chill inside her now.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
Ava smiled.
And lied like only a Monroe could.
“Of course.”
Later, after Kian had fallen asleep beside her, his breath even and unburdened, Ava lay awake—eyes open in the dark.
She pulled out her phone.
No texts.
No missed calls.
Just a single encrypted message from a name that didn’t belong in her contact list anymore.
Victoria Monroe:
Your husband is playing house. Time to remind him whose daughter you are.
Ava stared at the message for a long moment. Then deleted it.
She wasn’t ready to bring her mother into this.
Not yet.
But the clock had started ticking.
And when it struck zero, she wouldn’t need to confront Kian.
He would beg her to listen.
- Writer
