Chapter Three: The Past Bleeds Through
890 Words
POV: Ava
There are moments the heart never forgets.
The warmth of his fingertips against her jaw when he used to whisper her name like it was sacred.
The way his laugh melted into her skin during stolen mornings tangled in white sheets.
The promises inked in his voice before they turned into weapons.
And most of all, the moment it all turned to ash.
But before the betrayal, there was them.
And they were beautiful once.
Ava’s heels clicked across the marble floor as she walked away from Justine, heart slamming against her ribs like a war drum. She didn't stop until she was alone in the women’s powder room, locking the door behind her. Not because she needed to fix her makeup—she didn’t cry anymore. That version of her died a long time ago.
She needed a moment. Just one.
To remember why she came back.
To remember who she used to be.
---
Three Years Ago
New York City | Winter | The Beginning
The sky outside the penthouse had been draped in velvet clouds that night. Snow danced against the windows as Ava stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, wearing nothing but one of Justine’s button-down shirts and the kind of smile that came from loving someone so fully, it made your ribs feel too small.
He was cooking.
Justine Calloway—in all his billionaire glory—burned pasta in their designer kitchen while muttering curses at a pan that refused to cooperate.
“You’re going to set the entire floor on fire,” she teased from the counter.
He glanced back with that half-smile that always made her weak in the knees.
“Maybe. But at least you’ll die fed.”
She laughed, tossing a pillow at him from across the room. He caught it, and then—quick as a storm—he was in front of her, pinning her gently against the counter.
“Say it again,” he murmured, voice brushing her skin like silk.
She blinked up at him. “Say what?”
“That you love me.”
“I already told you—”
“Say it again.”
She rolled her eyes with mock drama, but the words spilled out anyway. “I love you, Justine Calloway.”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “Say it like you mean it.”
She smiled softly. “I mean it. God, I mean it.”
He kissed her then. Slow and reverent.
Back then, he was the only thing that made sense.
Back then, she would’ve given up the whole world just to keep him.
---
Present
Ava stared at herself in the mirror.
The woman looking back wasn’t the same.
Her reflection was armor. Red lips. Razor-sharp cheekbones. A body that carried power instead of softness. Gone were the wide eyes and the open heart. Gone was the girl who trusted too easily.
She’d died the day he let the media tear her apart.
The day he stood on the other side of the press conference and said, “Ava Remington is unwell. She fabricated financial records without Calloway Corp’s knowledge. We’re working closely with authorities to ensure clarity and compliance.”
He had smiled as he said it. Cold. Collected. Professional.
Her husband, weaponizing the world against her.
She still remembered how her phone exploded that night. How headlines called her everything from a liar to a leech. How clients backed out. How she was forced to sell her shares just to afford legal protection. The worst part wasn’t the betrayal—it was the silence.
He never called.
Not once.
Not to explain. Not to defend. Not to apologize.
It was like he let her drown to keep his empire afloat.
And now he dared to say he was protecting her?
No. That was a lie she refused to swallow.
---
A sharp knock on the bathroom door pulled her from the past.
She checked her reflection once more—unshaken, composed—and stepped back into the lion’s den.
Outside, the gala still buzzed. But now, whispers swirled. She could feel them sliding against her skin like smoke. Everyone wanted to know who she really was. What she was doing back. Why Justine had followed her out with that look in his eyes—like he wasn’t sure whether to strangle her or kiss her.
Let them talk.
Let the empire tremble.
She passed Layra near the bar and gave her a subtle nod. Her assistant, sharp and steady as always, handed her a sleek black folder.
“They approved the board seat for Monday’s vote,” Layra whispered. “You’ll be announced as co-chair if no one blocks the motion.”
“Justine?”
“No response yet.”
Good. Let him simmer.
But it was time to remind him—remind everyone—that Ava Remington didn’t just return to settle scores.
She came to take what she was owed.
And when she passed the painting near the exit—a commissioned piece she’d picked out with Justine before their wedding—she paused just long enough to whisper to herself:
“You loved the girl who worshipped you. Let’s see how you handle the woman who survived you.”
She smiled.
War had begun.
- Writer
