CHAPTER EIGHT: BENEATH THE SURFACE
AVA MONROE'S POV
People often say the truth will set you free.
Whoever said that never lived in the Kingsley penthouse.
The truth here was a currency, one you spent carefully,
traded for power, or buried when it threatened your narrative. And the deeper I
sank into this life, the more I realized I wasn't the only one keeping secrets.
Three weeks had passed since the scandal.
And Ethan and I…, we'd become a spectacle of affection. The
perfect couple. Always together, always glowing. At least, when cameras were
on.
When they weren't?
Silence.
Rooms full of tension.
Conversations clipped, calculated.
But something had shifted. A small, almost imperceptible
change in Ethan's gaze. He watched me longer. Asked about my schedule. Even
shared coffee once instead of rushing off.
It wasn't affection.
It was curiosity.
Like he'd begun to suspect I wasn't what I seemed.
He was right.
I had my own meeting.
In secret.
In the corner of a quiet café in Lower Manhattan, far from
designer heels and velvet ropes, I met the one person who still called me Ava
Monroe without flinching.
Jake.
My brother.
We hugged briefly, and I slid into the booth.
"You look…" he started.
"Rich?" I offered.
"Changed."
I smiled tightly. "It's part of the contract."
He frowned. "Is it working? The plan?"
I pulled out a flash drive and slid it across the table.
"Ethan's schedule. His meetings. Internal financials I've
been able to intercept from his home office."
Jake's eyes widened. "This is more than we hoped."
"You said you needed access. You've got it. But if this goes
south, I'm the one on every headline."
"You sure you want to keep going?"
I thought of the photo of Ethan and the mystery woman. The
cold look in his eyes. The fake kisses. The emptiness of our so-called
marriage.
"Yes," I said. "I'm sure."
Back at the penthouse, Ethan waited.
He was seated on the edge of the sofa, jacket tossed beside
him, shirt sleeves rolled up. A tumbler of bourbon in his hand.
"You were out," he said.
"Is that a question or an accusation?"
"Just an observation."
I moved to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. "I had
errands."
"For three hours?."
"You check my clock now.?"
He said nothing.
I sipped slowly, then added, "You know, if we're playing
house, you might as well trust me like a husband would."
"I'm not your husband, Ava. I'm your contract."
I smiled. "Well, at least one of us remembers that."
He stood and walked toward me, stopping just a breath away.
"What are you hiding?"
"What are you hiding?" I shot back.
His jaw clenched, and then, just like always, he retreated.
Like he couldn't afford to finish the conversation.
Like if he did, everything might collapse.
That night, I dreamed of fire.
Of the Kingsley empire burning.
And of Ethan, standing at the center, untouched by the
flames, while I watched from outside the gates.
The next morning, a new envelope waited at the door.
No return address.
Inside was a single photo, of me, with Jake.
At the café.
Taken from across the street.
A note was scribbled on the back in unfamiliar handwriting:
Your secrets aren't safe, Mrs. Kingsley.
My blood turned cold.
Someone knew and someone was watching.
But was it Ethan?.
Or someone worse?.