Twisted Vows

Game of Ghosts

Ava had never been the type to back down from a fight—especially not one dressed in lipstick and high society spite. And judging by the message she saw flashing on Kian’s phone earlier, it was about to get personal.

The morning after their domestic madness—TikToks, glitter-blue toenails, confessions wrapped in humor—Ava awoke to an empty bed and the distant clatter of voices. Her head throbbed, not from the wine, but from the sense that something had shifted.

Kian was in the study, door slightly ajar, speaking in low, clipped tones.

"No, Selene. Not here. Not now. Yes, I’m aware. No, she doesn’t know that—and she won’t."

A pause. A sigh.

"This changes nothing."

Ava didn’t listen further. She didn’t need to. Selene was pushing, and Kian was resisting. But something in his tone—measured, heavy—told Ava he was hiding more than a failed engagement.

She padded silently to the kitchen, mechanically making coffee. Her robe clung to her skin, remnants of their intimacy still lingering. But the comfort was beginning to c***k.

Kian joined her minutes later, dressed in slate gray slacks and a black shirt, sleeves rolled and expression unreadable.

"Morning," he said, too casually.

Ava raised an eyebrow. "Was that Selene?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "She wants to meet."

"Alone?"

He nodded again.

Ava sipped her coffee, letting the silence linger. Then:

"Then go."

Kian blinked. "What?"

"Meet her. Hear what she has to say. If she’s planning something, I want to know."

His jaw clenched. "She’s dangerous, Ava. Not in the guns-and-mobs sense. Worse. She plays people. And she doesn’t like losing."

Ava placed the mug down and looked him square in the eye. "Then let her underestimate me. That’s the fun part."

By afternoon, Kian was gone.

Ava found herself restless. She didn’t want to spy or text or play the insecure wife. But the pit in her stomach churned.

Instead, she dressed—nothing seductive, just sharp. Black tailored pants, a silk ivory blouse, and heels that screamed war-ready. She had her own meeting to attend.

Victoria Monroe, Ava’s mother, had called her that morning.

"Lunch," she had said. "My club. Don’t be late. And wear something elegant—not one of those i********:-thot dresses."

Classic.

The Manhattan private club was all velvet drapes and white-gloved servers. Victoria sat like she owned the place. In a way, she did. She controlled rooms without ever raising her voice.

"Ava," she drawled. "Still playing house with the Thorne boy?"

Ava slid into the seat. "Still playing queen without a kingdom?"

Her mother smiled thinly. "Touché."

The waiter arrived. Victoria ordered for both of them without asking. Ava didn’t protest. It was how her mother operated—control everything, even the salt on the table.

"I saw photos," Victoria began, slicing her salmon. "You looked decent at the gala. Even if that dress was one sneeze away from indecent."

"Thanks for the unsolicited wardrobe review."

"And him? Kian. What are you doing, darling? Getting attached?"

Ava stirred her water. "Why does it matter? The marriage is legal. The media’s biting. Your reputation’s saved."

Victoria’s knife clinked sharply against the plate. "I didn’t raise you to fall in love with a man like that."

"You didn’t raise me to fall in love at all."

Her mother’s face hardened. "I raised you to survive."

Ava met her gaze. "Then stop questioning my weapons."

Back at the penthouse, Kian wasn’t home. But a single note sat on the kitchen counter.

"She wants dinner. I want answers. Be back soon. –K"

Ava rolled her eyes. "Of course she wants dinner."

She was halfway through rewatching Killing Eve when her phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Is he worth dying for?

Ava froze.

Another message followed.

Check the envelope under your doormat.

Against her better judgment, she looked. A single manila envelope. Inside: photos.

One was Kian and Selene in a restaurant booth. Not touching. But close.

Another—a man Ava didn’t recognize. But on the back, scrawled in ink:

Dante Leone. The real enemy. Not Selene.

Then a final photo: Ava. Alone. On the street. Taken just hours ago.

Ava’s pulse thundered.

Someone was watching her.

She dropped the photos and grabbed her phone.

Texted Kian: Where are you?

No response.

The night wore on. She kept checking the windows. Every shadow felt like a threat.

When Kian finally returned, it was after midnight. His shirt was undone, hair windswept. Tension radiated from him.

"You okay?" she asked.

"No."

He dropped the envelope she had found earlier onto the counter.

"You got one too," she said quietly.

He looked up, something fierce and protective in his eyes. "They’re circling, Ava. And Selene… she knows things. Things I didn’t want her to."

Ava walked to him, reached for his hand. "Then tell me. No more secrets."

Kian hesitated. Then:

"Leone isn’t just an old enemy. He’s a cartel son. He runs blackmail schemes. Politics. Laundering. He tried to pull me in years ago. I said no. He never forgave that."

Ava’s heart pounded. "So Selene…?"

"Might be working with him. Or might just be her own brand of poison. Either way, we’re exposed."

Ava looked at him. This man who cooked her dinner. Painted her toes. Made her laugh. And who carried a war behind his eyes.

Ava walked to him, her eyes scanning his face. And even though her voice was calm, her jealousy curled just beneath her ribs.

"You were close in those pictures. Real close."

He didn’t respond.

So Ava closed the space between them.

Her hand fisted in his shirt. Then, with a swift tug, she gripped his collar and pulled him into a kiss—not gentle or exploratory, but fierce, claiming.

Kian stumbled slightly as she pressed him back onto the sofa. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan.

She kissed him like she was rewriting every image, every whisper of Selene.

Then she broke away, breath ragged.

"Next time she leans in that close, you tell her she can choke on her memories."

Kian blinked, dazed, aroused, stunned.

She straddled his lap, but not with sweetness. It was a power move.

Her hands braced on his chest, but her eyes—those sharp, hurricane-colored eyes—burned into his soul.

"You may have ghosts chasing you, Kian Thorne," she said lowly, "but I'm no shadow. I'm the damn storm."

He opened his mouth, but no sound came.

And then she kissed him again—this time slower, deeper, a warning and a vow.

When she pulled back, her voice was satin-wrapped steel.

"She gripped his jaw, forcing his gaze to lock with hers. "I'm not her," she said, voice steady. "And I don't share what’s mine."

Kian blinked slowly, lips parted, as if she had just yanked him out of his own storm. But Ava wasn’t done. She brushed a thumb across his bottom lip and smirked.

"So tell me, husband," she whispered, straddling control, not him, "are you ready to fight for something real, or are you still haunted by make-believe love stories?"

Kian exhaled slowly, something raw flickering in his eyes.

And as her mouth descended on his once more—this time with emotion tangled in every press and pull—Ava Monroe made her move.

Not just into his lap.

Into the war.

The queen had entered the arena.

End of Chapter 7