The press conference was over.
The headlines had twisted again — this time into fairy tales.
"Knight in Armani Armor: Ares Defends Wife Against Her Past"
"Billion-Dollar Husband? Ares Knight Buys Art Gallery in Ava's Name"
Ava stared at the news on her phone in disbelief.
"What?" she muttered, squinting at the glowing screen.
Ares, across the limo seat from her, scrolled through his own phone, completely unbothered.
She looked up. "You bought the Sable House gallery?"
"Yes," he said, without looking up.
"In my name?"
"Correct."
"Why?"
"It was available. And I needed a place for you to host the charity gala we're sponsoring next month."
She blinked. "You could've rented a venue."
"I don't rent," Ares said smoothly, eyes still glued to his device.
The silence stretched between them.
Ava's fingers tightened around her phone. "That place is worth eight million dollars."
"I negotiated it down to six."
She gaped at him. "That's not—normal. You don't just buy buildings in people's names."
"I do," he said without emotion. "Especially when those people are my wife."
He didn't say it with warmth. Didn't smile. Didn't so much as look at her. He could've been talking about a spreadsheet.
And yet…
Her heart was doing cartwheels. Stupid, reckless, idiotic cartwheels.
"Are you trying to impress me?" she asked, a little too sharply.
He looked up at last. His eyes met hers — sharp, cool, unreadable.
"No," he said. "I don't need to impress anyone. Least of all you."
Her breath caught — not because the words were cruel, but because he was lying.
There was something behind that statement, buried in the stillness of his stare. He looked away first, returning to his screen.
"Besides," he added casually, "if I wanted to impress you, I wouldn't stop at a gallery."
Ava sat back, stunned into silence.
She stared out the tinted window, wondering what kind of game he was playing. Because she was starting to lose track of the rules.
---
That Night – Ava's Apartment
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn't a news alert.
It was an email confirmation. From Cartier.
Your bespoke emerald necklace has been finalized. Delivery is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Recipient: Ava Knight.
She stared at it, speechless.
Another ping. From a real estate agent.
The penthouse overlooking Central Park is now officially in Ava Knight's name. Welcome home.
"What the hell…" she whispered.
She grabbed her coat and headed for the elevator. Twenty minutes later, she was outside Ares's building.
The doorman greeted her like royalty. "Good evening, Mrs. Knight. Mr. Knight is in."
She took the private elevator straight to the top. Her pulse thundered with every floor that ticked upward.
When the doors opened, Ares was in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up, typing on his tablet with the kind of ease that made tech billionaires seem dangerously attractive.
He looked up as she stormed in.
"You're buying penthouses now?"
He didn't blink. "You'll need privacy for future events. That one has full security and a view."
She threw her phone on the counter. "The Cartier necklace? Was that for an event too?"
"It's for the Met Gala."
"There's no Met Gala scheduled!"
"There will be."
She paced, eyes blazing. "You're just throwing money around like this means nothing."
"On the contrary," he said, finally meeting her eyes, "I throw money around because it means something. Money is power. And you need power right now."
Ava stepped back, stung.
"But I didn't ask for this."
He rose slowly, his gaze unreadable.
"No," he said. "You didn't. But you married me. That means you have it. Whether you like it or not."
For a moment, all she could do was stare at him.
Because he was standing close now. Too close. And the air between them had turned electric again — only this time, it wasn't heated by anger or lust.
It was confusion. Frustration. A wild, chaotic collision of feeling.
But he didn't touch her. Didn't lean in.
He just stepped around her, collected her phone, and handed it back with perfect calm.
"Don't let your pride reject what you've earned," he said softly. "You've survived hell, Ava. Let me give you something better."
She swallowed. "And what do you get out of this?"
He looked at her for a long, loaded second.
Then, quietly: "I get to keep you safe."
And just like that, he was gone — walking back into his room, leaving her standing in a designer apartment with a Cartier confirmation email and a heart that beat far too fast.