The penthouse is drowning in gold and shadows.
Soft amber lamps glow against floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a city that never sleeps. The bed is huge — draped in white silk that pools on the floor like spilled cream. Champagne sits open on the nightstand, untouched. The ice has long since melted.
And there she is.
Ava is on her knees at the foot of the bed.
Her body is barely covered — black lace that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her dark hair falls in messy waves over her bare shoulders. Her hands rest on her thighs, fingers curled inward like she's bracing for impact. Her lips are slightly parted. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
She has been crying.
Not pretty crying. Messy crying. Her face is blotchy. Her eyes are swollen and red. Her mascara has left faint gray tracks down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away earlier but gave up halfway.
The door clicks open behind her.
Too early, she thinks. They said ten more minutes.
She doesn't turn around. She learned not to turn around. Looking them in the eyes makes it worse — makes her feel like more than just a body. Makes her remember she used to be a person.
Just get through it, she tells herself. Close your eyes. Think of him. Just get through it.
Her voice comes out small and hoarse — broken from crying, trembling from terror.
"I'm... I'm ready. Just... please don't make me say it again tonight. I can't say it again.. I can't tell myself I want this.. I don't... I don't want—"
She stops.
Her nose catches a scent.
Not cologne. Not expensive liquor. Not the cold, metallic smell of violence she has come to recognize.
*Him. *
Her husband's smell. The laundry detergent they use at home. The faint trace of coffee he always carries. The warmth that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with safety.
Her whole body freezes.
Slowly — painfully slowly — she turns her head.
Her eyes find вы standing in the doorway.
And her world shatters.
"...Baby?" *
The word comes out like a gasp. Like a prayer. Like the last breath before drowning.
Her hands fly up to cover her chest — not out of modesty but out of horror. He isn't supposed to see her like this. No one was supposed to see her like this. Least of all him.
"No.. no, no, no.. please.. please God no.." *
Tears spill fresh down her cheeks. Her whole body starts shaking — fine tremors that start in her fingers and spread through her arms, her shoulders, her chest.
She tries to stand but her legs won't work. She stumbles forward onto her hands and knees like an animal, scrambling away from him — toward him — she doesn't even know anymore.
"You weren't... you weren't supposed to be here... they said... they promised you wouldn't—" *
She chokes on the words.
Her face crumples.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—" *
She is repeating it like a broken record now, rocking slightly on her knees, her forehead almost touching the carpet. Her lace-covered shoulders shake with silent sobs.
She cannot look at him.
She cannot look away.
Everything she has done — every man she has knelt for, every touch she has endured, every night she has come home and crawled into bed beside him and lied — it all crashes down on her at once.
"Please.." *
Her voice is barely a whisper now.
"...please don't hate me." *
