Stolen Locket, Stolen Heart: Her Revenge

Ava POV:

Our first marriage crumbled three years in. He hired a new assistant, a young woman fresh out of business school. Her name was Chloe. I found them in his private office, their bodies intertwined, a scene burned into my memory. The world spun. My breath caught in my throat. I stood there, frozen, the lunch I had brought for him clattering to the floor.

Tears streamed down my face. My voice cracked as I screamed at him, at her, calling them every name I could think of. I cursed him for his betrayal, her for her opportunism. I unleashed all my pain and fury.

Jaxon just watched me, calm, almost bored. Chloe, surprisingly, seemed to shrink back, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

"Are you quite finished?" Jaxon asked, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion. "You're making a spectacle."

He picked up a file from his desk.

"You really need to grow up, Ava," he said, flipping through the papers. "This is how the world works. Did you really think your father was faithful to your mother? He had countless affairs. Your mother knew. She just kept quiet. She was smart enough to protect her family's reputation."

He looked at me, his eyes cold and hard.

"Don't be like your mother in her weakness, Ava. Don't be so naive. And don't be like her in her silence either. But don't make a scene either. It's unbecoming. You need to be mature. I have a conference call in ten minutes. Stop this noise now."

His words choked the air from my lungs. My blood turned to ice. He used my deepest wounds, my family's hidden shame, to attack me. He twisted my mother's quiet dignity into weakness. I couldn't speak, could only gasp for air. My anger died, replaced by a crushing despair.

It was late when Jaxon' s car finally returned. I heard the engine, then the quiet click of the front door. I was still sitting in the living room, staring out the window. Chloe was gone. But there was another presence.

A young woman lay asleep on the sofa, covered by a cashmere throw. Her long, blonde hair fanned out around her head. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She was young, barely out of her teens, with an air of delicate innocence. But there was a stubborn set to her jaw, an underlying defiance. She was exactly his type now.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, a consequence of standing in the rain for so long. My head throbbed. I felt a chill deep in my bones.

"You must be cold," I said, forcing a smile onto my face. My voice sounded foreign even to my own ears. "The guest rooms are upstairs, the third door on the left. The master suite is off-limits, of course."

I pointed vaguely upstairs. Ivory's eyes, wide and guarded, followed my gesture. On the coffee table, next to an overturned glass, lay a tube of muscle relaxant cream. The Persian rug had deep indentations, as if something heavy had been dragged across it. I imagined the scene, the struggle, the passionate embrace.

I sighed silently. This was my life now. I turned and walked up the grand staircase. My footsteps echoed in the silent house. I went to my room, not the one Jaxon used, but a separate suite across the hall. We hadn't shared a bed since our remarriage, a silent agreement we both understood.

I locked the door behind me. Then I pulled out the small leather journal I kept hidden beneath the floorboard under my bed—the one thing in this house that was truly mine.

I flipped to the back page, where I'd started a list.

"Mother's locket: retrieve from Jaxon. Sotheby's auction records: request copies. Personal jewelry: assess value. Separate bank account: open under maiden name."

I added a new line: "Ivory Cote. Columbia student. Find out what she knows about the photos Chloe took."

This was my real life now. Not the dinners, not the cold politeness, not the mask I wore downstairs. This—the quiet planning, the slow gathering of information, the long game—was the only thing that still belonged to me.

Jaxon thought he'd broken me into a silent, obedient wife. And I'd let him believe that. The longer he underestimated me, the more time I had.

I closed the journal and slid it back into its hiding place. Then I got into bed, turned off the light, and stared at the ceiling until dawn.