His Placeholder Bride, My Bitter Revenge

Avery Trevino POV: The phone felt like a block of ice in my hand, the cold seeping into my bones. Sutton Holdings. Destroying me. The words echoed in the hollow space where my heart used to be. Grant. He had done this. He had allowed this. There was no time for tears, no space for grief. My instincts, sharp and unyielding, kicked in. I had to move. I had to protect my work, my integrity, the last shreds of my professional life. I rushed back to the newsroom, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My desk was a sanctuary, a battle station. I pulled up my files, the mountains of evidence, the meticulously documented sources. I would fight. I would release a follow-up, a rebuttal, something to expose their lies and protect the paper's reputation, my colleagues' trust. I grabbed my drafted statement, my hands clammy, and strode towards Rebecca's office. She was my mentor, my friend, the woman who had taught me everything. She would understand. But when I entered, her gaze shifted, avoiding mine. Her eyes were shadowed, filled with a profound weariness. She slowly pushed a crisp white envelope across her desk towards me. A resignation letter. My name, typed neatly, at the top. "Avery," her voice was thick with unspoken emotion. "I'm so sorry, child. I... I can't. I'm so proud of you, of the journalist you've become. You always chased the truth, no matter how ugly. But this... this is too big." My mind reeled. "Rebecca, what is this? Are they... are they forcing you to fire me?" She nodded, a single tear tracing a path down her wrinkled cheek. "Their lawyers. Their influence. They threatened to pull all their advertising, sue the paper into oblivion. My staff. Their families. I have to protect them, Avery." Her voice broke. The truth hit me, a punch to the gut. My own mentor, the woman I respected most, was caught in their web. I wasn't just being fired. I was being erased. I took the letter, my fingers trembling as they closed around the paper. "Rebecca," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "thank you. For everything." I bowed deeply, a gesture of profound respect and gratitude. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "Listen, Avery," she managed, her voice carefully controlled. "I pulled some strings. There's a visiting scholar program at the London School of Journalism. It's fully funded. A chance to... regroup. To write without fear." She pushed a brochure towards me. "Think about it." I nodded, unable to speak. "Thank you," I choked out, then turned and walked out of her office one last time. The glass doors of the building slid shut behind me, a final, echoing clang. I stood on the sidewalk, the city bustling around me, a blur of indifference. I felt utterly adrift, a ghost in my own life. Suddenly, a commotion erupted nearby. Coarse shouts, the clatter of something falling. An elderly street vendor, her face etched with worry, was being roughly shoved by two men in cheap suits. Her cart was overturned, her meager belongings scattered across the pavement. My journalistic instincts flared. My hand instinctively reached for my pocket, for the press pass that was no longer there. The camera I usually carried, the notepad, the voice recorder-all gone. I was just Avery. A woman. Nobody. My hand froze in mid-air. What was I supposed to do? What good was I without my badge, my paper's backing, my voice? The men sneered at me, their eyes dismissive. "Beat it, lady. This ain't your business." A profound sense of helplessness washed over me. All I could do was silently help the old woman gather her spilled wares, my heart aching with a powerless rage. Later that evening, I found myself outside the familiar apartment building, the one I had shared with Grant. I unlocked the door, expecting an empty, silent space. My heart felt heavy, but I was determined to pack my few remaining things and leave this chapter behind. But the moment I stepped inside, I heard it. A low hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery. Grant's voice, warm and indulgent, drifted from the kitchen. I walked further in, my breath catching in my throat. He was there, at the stove, a linen apron tied around his waist, stirring something in a gleaming pot. And sitting on a high stool at the kitchen island, watching him with an amused smile, was Ivory. "Ugh, Grant, that smells terrible," Ivory teased, wrinkling her nose. "You're still awful at cooking." Grant chuckled, a soft, affectionate sound I'd rarely heard directed at me. He dipped a spoon into the pot, tasted it, and grimaced. "Alright, alright, maybe a little more salt." He turned to her, a playful glint in his eyes. "But you know, I try for you, Ivory." "You only try when I'm here to supervise," she retorted, but her smile was genuine, utterly relaxed. "Remember that time you almost set the kitchen on fire trying to make me pasta?" He laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh. "How could I forget? You were furious." "I was terrified! You almost burned down the whole apartment!" She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with shared memory. "And then you just ordered takeout and made me eat it under the smoke detector alarm." "Only because you insisted you were starving," Grant said, his gaze lingering on her with a tenderness that made my chest ache. "And you know I'd never let you go hungry." Ivory caught my eye then. Her smile faltered, replaced by a subtle, venomous smirk. "Speaking of hungry," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, "I wonder what Avery usually has for dinner. Or if Grant ever cooked for her." The air froze. Grant's back stiffened. He slowly turned, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and embarrassment. "Avery? What are you doing home so early?" "Just came to get my things," I replied, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I walked past them, not looking at the sumptuous meal laid out on the counter. My eyes were fixed on the bedroom, on the small bag I'd packed weeks ago. I just needed my passport, my essential documents. Then I could leave. For good. "Avery, wait," Grant called from behind me. "Stay for dinner. I... I made a lot." I glanced back, my gaze sweeping over the elaborate spread: roasted chicken, fresh pasta, a vibrant salad. I realized, with a sickening lurch, that I had never once seen Grant cook. He had always ordered in, or we would go out. He had never made me a meal, let alone a feast like this. This meticulous care, this hidden talent, it was all for her. "No, thank you," I said, my voice cold. "I'm not hungry." I found my document bag in the closet, my hands fumbling with the zipper. Passport. Wallet. Phone. Everything I needed. I didn't even bother to glance back at the room, at the life I was leaving behind. As I walked out, I heard Ivory's light, teasing laugh, then Grant's low, murmuring reply. The words were indistinct, but the intimacy, the easy familiarity, was unmistakable. They belonged together. And I was merely an intruder, a forgotten shadow. I didn't try to decipher their words. I didn't want to. I opened the door and stepped out, the click of the lock a definitive end to this chapter of my life. My phone vibrated again, a relentless summons from the life I was trying to outrun.