The day had come like any other — too fast and too relentless.
Ava Carter stood in front of the mirror, tracing a fingertip along the edge of her jaw like she was trying to remind herself she was real. The woman staring back at her was flawless — as always. But behind the lipstick and the silk, her eyes betrayed the tremble of a girl who'd never been safe.
Today, she needed to be even more perfect.
Alex had texted. He was in town. And the walls she'd built for seventeen years were already shaking.
---
By the time Adrien stepped into the kitchen, Ava had flipped the switch. The woman he saw was dazzling, irritatingly cheerful, and way too loud for 8 a.m.
"Good morning, baby," she sang, grinning as she reached up to ruffle his hair — something he usually ducked away from.
He looked at her, eyes cautious. "You're in a good mood."
She giggled — forced. "Of course I am. My handsome son is awake. That's enough to make any mom happy."
Then she hugged him, tighter than usual. Held on longer than usual.
"Mom…" he muttered, pulling away slightly. "You okay?"
"Never better," she said quickly, turning to the coffee machine. "Why?"
"No reason."
But there was reason. Her voice had cracked. Her fingers trembled on the handle. And her eyes wouldn't meet his.
Adrien opened his mouth to speak, but she was already rushing to him, throwing her arms around his neck like a storm. "You're growing up so fast, baby. I blink and you're taller than me, your voice deeper, your jaw like your father's—" She froze. The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Adrien tensed. "Like who?"
"Never mind." She kissed his cheek. "God, I used to braid your hair when you were five. You'd sit on my lap like a little prince and I'd tell you bedtime stories about dragons and—"
"I know something's wrong."
Her smile stayed fixed, like porcelain. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just being clingy. Moms get like that, don't they?"
"You're acting like you're scared I'll vanish."
Adrien watched her closely. He didn't say a word.
Then the vase.
She didn't mean to. She turned too fast, her elbow knocking the edge.
CRACK.
The sound was just glass.
But to Ava—
She dropped the spatula.
Her breath caught like she'd been struck.
For a split second, she wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
She was sixteen. Pregnant. Kneeling on the floor of Alex's apartment, picking up shards of another vase he'd thrown. Her cheek already bruised. Her stomach tight with fear. And him—him lighting a cigarette and laughing.
Back in the kitchen, her hands shook.
"Mom?" Adrien said gently.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Ava stared at the shattered porcelain like it was something sacred. The sound still echoed in the quiet, bouncing off the walls with a cruel kind of finality. Pieces lay at her feet like broken promises—white and delicate, ruined beyond repair.
Adrien stood frozen, halfway down the stairs. He hadn't said anything.
Neither had she.
She bent slowly, fingers trembling as she reached for a shard. Blood bloomed from her palm almost instantly, bright against the pale floor.
"Damn it," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Still, no tears.
She wrapped the wound in her sleeve, dabbing at the blood like it was nothing more than spilled wine. Then she swept up the broken vase with her bare hands, placing each piece carefully in the trash.
The vase shattered.
She didn't mean to. She turned too fast, her elbow knocking the edge.
CRACK.
The sound was just glass.
But to Ava—
She dropped the spatula.
Her breath caught like she'd been struck.
For a split second, she wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
She was sixteen. Pregnant. Kneeling on the floor of Alex's apartment, picking up shards of another vase he'd thrown. Her cheek already bruised. Her stomach tight with fear. And him—him lighting a cigarette and laughing.
He took in the way her robe was too tight around her waist, how her shoulders looked too small beneath it. He saw the way her fingers curled around the counter—gripping it like she needed to feel something solid, something real.
And her eyes. They didn't meet his.
Not once.
Ava turned away, crouched slowly to gather the pieces.
"Leave it," Adrien said.
"No, it's fine, I can clean up my own mess."
He crouched next to her, gently taking the shard from her fingers.
"It's not about the vase, is it?"
She stopped breathing.
"Mom."
"It was just a gift," she said quickly. "From someone at work. I don't even like orchids. They die fast."
"You always liked orchids."
Silence.
Adrien placed the shard down. "Please stop pretending. I can see it. I know something's wrong."
Ava shook her head.
But her chin wobbled.
"You know how I am," she whispered. "I get overwhelmed. I drop things. I cry at dumb commercials. I'm fine, baby. Really."
And then she smiled.
Too bright. Too big. Too cheerful.
She reached forward and cupped his face, kissing his forehead, laughing through her tears.
"I mean, who else cries at coffee ads, right? Remember that one with the piano music? I sobbed. You made fun of me for days."
She laughed again, but it cracked.
"Mom—"
"I'm fine," she insisted. "I just need a minute. Or maybe a glass of wine. Or ten. God, maybe I'll just sleep in tomorrow for once. Wouldn't that be wild?"
She kissed his cheek again. Held his face in both hands.
Clingy. Overaffectionate.
Desperate.
"Ava."
She flinched at the sound of her name. Not Mom. Not Mama. Just Ava.
Too real.
Too sharp.
And then she saw it in his eyes—he wasn't buying it.
Something in her broke.
Her knees gave out.
Right there on the cold marble floor.
Adrien caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her gently as her body shook in his arms. Her robe fell open at the wrist, revealing the faint scar that had never quite faded—years old, but still etched like a ghost.
"I'm sorry," she kept whispering. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Mom," Adrien said gently. "You don't have to say that."
But she wasn't listening. Her breath was coming faster now, like something was clawing up her throat. She gripped his sleeve and shut her eyes—and that's when it came.
The memory.
The room dissolved. The warmth of Adrien's arms faded, and she was sixteen again.
It was raining that night. She remembered that first.
The window in Alex's bedroom had been cracked open, letting in the cold. The scent of smoke and wet pavement curled into the air like poison.
She had tried to tell him the news—she was pregnant, and scared, and still hoping for some version of love she'd read about in storybooks.
But he didn't listen.
He laughed.
And then he slapped her so hard her cheek burned for hours after.
She fell backward onto the floor, her head cracking against the nightstand. And when she cried—when the tears came, unfiltered and terrified—he kicked the drawer shut like her sobbing was an inconvenience.
"You always ruin everything," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "Maybe the baby won't be as pathetic."
She remembered curling up on the hardwood, one arm over her stomach like she could already protect what was inside. Blood trickled from her temple. Smoke filled the room.
And he just watched her bleed and lit another cigarette.
Like it was normal.
Like she was the problem.
---
Her breath hitched in the present.
Adrien was still holding her.
But Ava wasn't really there.
"He didn't even care," she sobbed. "He said it was my fault. That everything was my fault."
Adrien's eyes stung. "He was wrong. He was sick, and cruel, and none of it was your fault."
She looked up at him, eyes red, makeup smudged into the hollows of her cheeks. "I wanted to be strong. I promised myself I'd never let you see me like this."
"You don't have to protect me from the truth, Mom. You lived it. I think I can hear it."
Silence.
Then: "I used to hold you at night and hum lullabies so you wouldn't hear me crying. I didn't want your first memories to be fear."
Adrien swallowed hard. "They aren't."
Ava leaned her forehead against his. "You saved me. Just by being born. That's the truth."
And finally—finally—she let herself break completely.
No more lies.
No more pretending.
Just Ava Carter, no mask, no perfection, no empire. Just a woman held together by love and trauma and a son who was strong enough to see her in pieces.
And still hold her close.