The limousine was silent, but it carried the echo of the gala like a coffin carried whispers of the dead. Ava sat opposite him, her face turned toward the black glass, and Liam could see her reflection fractured by the passing city lights. He wanted to reach for her, to drag her into his arms, to tell her that nothing and no one could undo them. But the weight pressing on her shoulders was not the kind words of comfort, it was history — history in the shape of a stolen son who now stood across the battlefield, weaponized against them.
Liam had been in boardrooms where fortunes collapsed. He had stood in alleys where knives dripped red and promises curdled into betrayal. He had stared into the hollow eyes of men begging for mercy he never granted. But never — never — had he seen Ava look s
