AVA'S POV
The night after the confrontation at the gala lingered in my mind like a bruise beneath silk.
It was the kind of evening that changes something fundamental inside you, where every glance, every word, becomes a storm you have to survive.
I hadn't seen Ethan since the limousine ride home. He hadn't
returned to the penthouse that night, and I didn't bother asking where he'd gone. For once, I didn't care. Or at least, I told myself that.
But the silence? That was louder than any argument.
The morning sun poured through the glass walls of our high-rise, bathing the kitchen in gold. I sat alone at the breakfast table,
dressed in a pale robe, fingers wrapped around a mug of untouched coffee. Dianebhad texted me earlier, something vague about press damage control and a
scheduled appearance. I hadn't replied.
The click of shoes on marble floors broke the quiet.
Ethan.
He looked immaculate, as always. Charcoal suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled up just slightly. His face was unreadable, but the air around him was electric.
We didn't speak right away.
He poured himself a glass of water. Drank it. Turned to face me.
"You didn't come to the bedroom," I said first, voice low.
He raised a brow. "I figured we needed space."
"You always figure. But you never ask."
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Do you want me
to start asking you for permission to breathe too, Ava?"
"I want you to start seeing me as more than just your business strategy," I snapped. "I want to matter beyond the press. Beyond your image."
Silence.
He set the glass down a little too forcefully. "You think this is easy for me?"
"Being emotionally distant?. You seem to have mastered it."
His jaw clenched. "You're not exactly forthcoming either."
"You never gave me a reason to be!"
Something flickered in his eyes. Regret? Frustration?, I couldn't tell.
"I didn't marry you because I hated you, Ava."
That stunned me into silence.
"I married you because you're the one person who doesn't try to please me. You challenge me. You look me in the eye and tell me the truth. And sometimes..., I don't know how to deal with that."
He stepped closer. His voice lowered.
"But I'm trying."
The vulnerable crack in his tone almost undid me.
But I couldn't let him off that easily.
"Trying isn't enough if I'm the only one bleeding for this marriage," I whispered.
"I never asked you to bleed."
"No, Ethan. You just stood there and watched."
His expression darkened. "You want to talk about bleeding? You think I'm untouched?. You think growing up in a house where love was currency and trust was traded like stock didn't scar me?"
I stood. The chair scraped backward. "Then why keep repeating it?"
He stared at me for a long, heavy moment.
Then, quietly, "Because I don't know how else to be."
We were quiet for a while.
The morning moved on without us. The city buzzed below. But in our glass cage, time stood still.
"I'm tired," I finally admitted. "Of pretending we're okay."
His voice was raw. "So am I."
We didn't reach for each other. There were no sudden declarations. Just two people, staring across a battlefield of their own making, finally seeing the wreckage.
Later that day, I went to the art studio Diane had leased for me. A quiet space in Chelsea, tucked away behind ivy-covered walls. I
hadn't painted in weeks. The colors felt distant. But something about today made my fingers itch.
I pulled out a canvas.
The first strokes were chaotic. Anger. Loss. A deep ache I didn't know how to name.
Then came the calm.
Lines softened. Shapes began to emerge.
By dusk, I had painted Ethan. Not the Ethan people saw, the
billionaire, the enigma, but the man from this morning. The one who didn't know how to love but tried anyway.
And in that moment, I realized something frightening:
I still wanted to try too.
That evening, I returned home to find a note tucked beneath a glass dome on the table. Ethan's handwriting. Clean. Sharp.
"Dinner. Just us. No cameras. No press. If you're willing to talk, I'm willing to listen."
I stood there staring at it for what felt like forever.
Then I picked it up, pressed it to my chest, and breathed for the first time in days.
Maybe, just maybe, storms could bring clarity after all.
And maybe silence, when shared, could become something else
entirely.
Like hope.