His Placeholder Bride, My Bitter Revenge

Avery Trevino POV:

I had rationalized every red flag, every moment of doubt, pouring my love into a sieve, hoping it would somehow fill the emptiness. Now, standing on that street, the bitter frost of dawn biting at my cheeks, I realized how foolish I had been. My self-deception had been a thick, suffocating blanket.

I turned on my heel and walked straight to my office. The familiar scent of old paper and stale coffee was a welcome antidote to the cloying sweetness of betrayal. This was my sanctuary, my truth.

"Rebecca," I stated, walking into her office without knocking, my voice firm despite the tremor deep inside. "I'm submitting a request for a transfer. International bureau, London. Effective immediately."

Rebecca looked up, her glasses perched on her nose. She blinked, then her gaze sharpened, falling to my left hand. The diamond engagement ring, a symbol of my shattered future, was gone. Her eyes softened with understanding. "Oh, Avery, dear."

"It's just work, Rebecca," I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. "I need a change of scenery. A bigger challenge."

Her sigh was gentle. "You always did chase the biggest stories. Even when everyone else was too afraid to touch them. A change of scenery, huh? Well, you'll certainly find a challenge in London. A. Trevino, breaking headlines globally, I can see it already."

I nodded, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Thank you, Rebecca."

She smiled back, a warmth in her eyes that offered a momentary comfort. "Go. Go make a name for yourself, Avery. You were always too big for this city anyway."

I didn't waste another second. I buried myself in my work, in the intricate dance of facts and investigations, for days, weeks even. It was a brutal form of self-medication, a way to numb the searing pain that threatened to consume me. My eyes burned, my head throbbed, and my body ached from lack of sleep and proper food.

My phone, a vibrating alarm bell of the world I was trying to escape, lay forgotten on my desk. Hundreds of missed calls and texts from Clara, from Grant, from people who didn't understand, or didn't want to. I scrolled past them all, a cold detachment settling over me. They were ghosts, fading into the rearview mirror.

One evening, driven by a strange, melancholic impulse, I found myself walking towards the familiar red awning of "Mama Lu's Noodle House." It was a small, unassuming place, tucked away on a side street, but it held a thousand memories.

Mama Lu, a woman with a booming laugh and a heart of gold, greeted me with a wide smile. "Avery, darling! Long time no see! Where's your handsome man tonight? Grant, isn't it?"

My smile flickered, a faint, fragile thing. "He's... busy, Mama Lu. Just me tonight."

"Ah, a shame," she clucked, but her eyes held a knowing sadness. "The usual, then? The spicy beef ramen you both love?"

"Please," I whispered, settling into our usual booth by the window.

The steaming bowl was placed before me, its rich aroma filling the air. For a fleeting moment, I saw him across from me, a phantom image of Grant, smiling, urging me to eat. The memory was a fresh wound.

Our first date. I' d been late, stuck on a breaking story, frantic with apologies. He' d waited, patiently, for two hours, a book open on the table, a gentle smile on his face when I finally rushed in. He'd insisted on taking me here, to "his secret spot," a place he said made him feel grounded, away from the glitz of his world.

It wasn't perfect, that first date. He was a little guarded, a little distant, even then. But I'd been so charmed, so eager to see the good in him. This noodle house quickly became "our" spot, a quiet haven where we could pretend to be just two ordinary people in love.

I had thought, then, that this place was special to him because of us. Because of me. But now, it was sickeningly clear. This wasn't our spot. This was his spot. A place he' d likely shared with Ivory, a place where he could escape to his true self, the self I was never truly meant to see. I was merely a convenient echo, a pale imitation of the woman who had truly captured his soul.

My stomach churned. The spicy beef, once a comfort, now tasted like ashes. I pushed the bowl away, the hunger replaced by a profound nausea.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a crash, shattering the quiet warmth of the noodle house. Three burly men, their faces hard and grim, stormed in. One of them, a bulky man with a cruel smirk, pointed a finger at Mama Lu. "You! You're still selling your garbage? We told you to close this dump!"

Mama Lu, usually so fearless, cowered behind the counter. Other diners, startled, scrambled for the exit, their faces pale with fear.

I remained rooted in my seat, a strange, defiant calm settling over me. My journalistic instincts, honed over years, flared to life. This was an injustice. This was a story.

"Get out!" The man bellowed, gesturing to his companions. "Smash this place up! Teach her a lesson!"

They began to wreak havoc, overturning tables, smashing crockery. A young waiter was roughly shoved, falling backwards into a pile of broken dishes.

"Stop!" My voice, sharp and clear, cut through the din. I stood up, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. "Who sent you? What gives you the right to do this?"

The leader turned, his cruel eyes narrowing on me. "Oh, a little hero, huh? Just like that nosy reporter who wrote about Sutton Holdings. You got something to say, sweetheart?"

"I'm A. Trevino," I stated, my chin lifted, "and if you don't stop this, your faces will be all over the morning news. Along with whoever hired you."

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A reporter, eh? Think you're a big shot now? We don't care about your pretty little words. Sutton Holdings owns this city. And they want this place gone."

He lunged forward, grabbing my arm, his grip bruising. "Maybe we should teach you a lesson too, Miss A. Trevino."

A surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I twisted, pulling my arm free, and brought my knee up hard, connecting with his groin. He gasped, releasing me, clutching himself. The air left the room in a shared gasp.

The noodle house fell silent. The leader, his face contorted in pain and fury, stared at me, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "You bitch! You'll regret that!" He lunged again, but before he could reach me, a commanding voice cut through the air.

"Enough."

The word was quiet, yet it resonated with an undeniable authority. All eyes turned to the doorway.

Grant Sutton stood there, his presence filling the space. Behind him, two hulking figures in dark suits, his personal security, swiftly moved in, disarming the thugs with ruthless efficiency. They were like shadows, silent and deadly.

Grant's gaze swept over the wrecked noodle house, then landed on me, his eyes cold and unreadable. He looked completely different from the panicked man who had chased after Ivory earlier. This was the cold, calculating businessman. The ruthless heir.

"Avery," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. His gaze lingered on my bruised wrist, then flickered to the thug writhing on the floor.

"Mr. Sutton, thank goodness you're here!" Mama Lu exclaimed, rushing out from behind the counter. "They were destroying my shop! And trying to hurt Avery!"

Grant merely nodded, his eyes still fixed on me. "Get her checked out," he ordered his security, his voice flat. "And call the police. Make sure these men are dealt with properly."

The police arrived quickly, taking statements while Grant's men efficiently cleaned up the mess. Mama Lu, still trembling, came over to me. "Thank you, Avery. And thank you, Mr. Sutton, for coming."

Grant simply gave a curt nod. He then turned to me, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Are you alright?"

I shivered, a sudden chill running through me. His coat, warm and heavy, was draped over my shoulders.

"Let me take you home," he said, his voice softer now, a hint of the familiar Grant resurfacing.

My eyes fell on a shattered piece of porcelain, a fragment of Mama Lu's favorite tea set, lying on the floor. It perfectly mirrored my broken self. I couldn't go back, not with him.

"Avery?" His voice was a gentle probe. "Are you angry?"

He stepped closer, his hand reaching for mine. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his gaze earnest. "About the rehearsal, about everything. I should have told you about Ivory. I should have-"

"No, Grant," I interrupted, pulling my hand away. My voice was tight, a thin wire stretched to its breaking point. "I'm not angry." My throat constricted, the truth a bitter lump I couldn't swallow.

Just as the words trembled on my lips, a voice, sharp and elegant, cut through the tense silence. "Grant? What in hell are you doing here?"