Paper Rings & Poisoned Promises

2.You Can't Resurrect the Dead

Grayson's POV

Marrying her was the easy part.

Standing beside Ava Sinclair in front of three hundred people and pretending we weren't quietly planning each other's emotional assassinations?

That took talent.

She looked beautiful, of course.

Tragic things usually do.

But what the cameras didn't catch was the way her fingers trembled before I slipped the ring on. Or the way her voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, when she said "I do."

I memorized both.

Because if I let myself look too long - if I let myself remember the girl I once called mine - I might break character.

And Grayson Hale doesn't break.

They all think this marriage is a victory.

My board is satisfied. Her father's company is saved. The press is eating it up like a fairytale.

But fairy tales are just well-dressed lies.

The truth is...

This isn't revenge.

It's regret. Wrapped in Armani.

Ava thinks I came back for business. For power.

She's wrong.

I came back because I never stopped bleeding.

Even after I walked away.

The day I left her, I thought I was protecting her.

But no one ever talks about how hard it is to stay away from the only person who's ever looked at you like you weren't born broken.

She was sunlight. Reckless. Smart. Always a little too brave for her own good.

I wanted to build her a world she wouldn't have to fight to survive in.

But instead, I became the reason she put her armor on.

When she whispered that line at the altar - "Even queens know how to kill kings" - I felt it. Not just in my chest. In my f**king bones.

Ava never needed saving.

She needed the truth.

And I buried it six feet under with my silence.

Now I'm married to her. And she hates me.

Good.

Hate is something.

It's not indifference.

And if there's anything left between us to ruin...

I'll burn for the chance to touch it again.

*****************

She hates me. I saw it in her eyes today. That same fire I used to love-it's aimed at me now. And maybe I deserve it. Hell, I probably do. I walked away from her when she needed me the most. I thought I was doing the right thing. Thought if I stayed away, she'd have a better shot at happiness. But instead, I became the reason she stopped believing in it.

I don't even know how we got here-married, bitter, broken. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not for us. We had plans, dreams. Late-night phone calls talking about escaping our families, about building something real. And now? We're nothing more than a business transaction in designer clothes.

But even now, even after everything, she still gets under my skin. The way she looked in that dress, the way she didn't flinch when I put the ring on her finger... Ava Sinclair is still the only person who's ever made me feel anything real. And that scares the hell out of me. Because if I let her back in, if I give her even one piece of the truth... she might never forgive me.

****************

And that would be easier than her pretending this is fine.

Because nothing about tonight is fine.

The doors of Hale Manor shut behind us with a heavy, echoing finality. She steps inside like she's walking into a mausoleum, not her new home. Still in her wedding dress. Still in her heels. Still looking like sin wrapped in silk and spite.

"This place is bigger than I remember," she mutters, voice cold enough to burn. "Or maybe it just feels emptier."

I don't answer. That I had her favorite wine stocked, her old favorite vinyls boxed in the study, untouched since we were still us?

No. I say nothing. Silence is safer.

She walks ahead of me, straight past the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the railing like she's memorizing every inch she plans to never call hers. I follow behind her, each step like a countdown to disaster.

"This isn't real," she says without looking back. "Don't think for a second this means anything."

"I never said it did," I reply, even though it does. It always has.

She stops in front of the double doors to the master bedroom. Turns slowly. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes-those eyes I used to love-look straight through me now.

"I'll take the guest room," she says, voice clipped. "Wouldn't want to bruise your side of the bed."

I almost laugh. Almost. But it sticks in my throat like everything else I want to say to her. Like I'm sorry. Like I never stopped. Like this still kills me.

She disappears down the hall, leaving only the faint scent of roses and war behind her.

And me?

I stand in a house I bought for a future she no longer believes in, telling myself the truth I've buried a hundred times before-

You can't resurrect the dead.

But God help me, I want to try.