Flashback on*
The Blake estate was quiet that morning—eerily so.
Ava sat in the sunroom, fingers wrapped around a cup of Earl Grey she didn't want. Her hands were cold, her stomach unsettled. Outside, a storm was coming. You could feel it in the wind.
She didn't hear the footsteps until Vivienne Blake entered—flawless in ivory silk, her perfume sweet but suffocating.
"Good morning, darling," Vivienne said smoothly, like a blade cloaked in velvet.
Ava glanced up, forcing a polite smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Blake."
Vivienne tsked gently. "I told you to call me Vivienne. We're family now."
Ava bit her lip, nodding.
Vivienne sat across from her and crossed her legs with grace too rehearsed. "You didn't sleep well last night, did you?"
Ava frowned. "No. I suppose I've been... anxious lately."
Vivienne's eyes flicked to the delicate silver bracelet on Ava's wrist. A gift from Killian during their honeymoon. Her smile tightened.
"Anxious. That's understandable. Marriage can be... unpredictable."
Ava didn't respond.
She was already used to these passive-aggressive chats. Always cloaked in civility. Always undermining something.
Vivienne leaned closer. "Do you ever feel... overwhelmed?"
Ava blinked. "Sometimes. But that's normal, isn't it? Especially with the new merger—Killian's been under pressure."
"Oh, yes," Vivienne said softly. "And I imagine the pressure extends to the home, too."
Something in her voice changed.
Ava frowned. "What do you mean?"
Vivienne stirred her tea delicately. "I've noticed the staff whispering. You've been crying more. You skip meals. You talk to yourself when you think no one's listening."
Ava's stomach dropped.
"I don't—"
"Sweetheart," Vivienne interrupted gently, "no one's judging. We've all had our... moments."
She reached across the table and touched Ava's hand.
"But you're not alone. I'm here. We just need to make sure Killian isn't burdened too much. You know how sensitive he is to emotional chaos."
Ava pulled her hand back slowly.
"What are you saying?"
Vivienne sighed, her expression perfectly composed.
"I'm saying... maybe it would help if you saw someone. A specialist. Just to ease the tension. A private consultation—very discreet. I can arrange it for you. No press. No record."
Ava stared at her, suddenly cold all over.
"You think I'm mentally unwell."
Vivienne blinked, then gave a sad smile. "I think you're under strain. And I think it's affecting your marriage. I've seen this before, Ava. It begins with nerves. Ends in scandal."
She stood, brushing nonexistent dust from her dress.
"If you love Killian, you'll consider it."
And then she left.
Ava sat frozen, her breath shallow.
She didn't know it then—but that was the first thread pulled.
Days passed.
Vivienne's poison spread quietly.
Killian came home later than usual. Their conversations grew shorter. The board meetings consumed him. And Ava—already fraying—began to wonder if she was unstable.
She began to doubt herself.
She began to question her reactions, her anger, her exhaustion.
And then came the second blow.
One afternoon, as she reviewed inventory changes for her perfume line (then still under Blake Corp's umbrella), she noticed something off.
Funds missing. Signatures forged. Orders redirected.
She showed the report to Killian.
He barely looked up.
"A clerical error," he said.
"Killian, these are tens of thousands of dollars. I didn't authorize this."
"We'll fix it."
She tried again. "I think someone is manipulating the numbers. This happened before, when I was launching—"
"God, Ava." He finally looked up, face tight. "Everything doesn't have to be a conspiracy. You've been paranoid for weeks."
Her heart dropped.
"Paranoid?"
He stood. "Vivienne was right. You need rest."
Ava stared at him like she didn't recognize the man in front of her.
"She told you I'm unstable?"
"She's concerned."
"She's manipulating you, Killian."
He looked away.
And that was when she knew.
She was alone.
One week later, Ava was escorted—coaxed, as they called it—into a private facility outside the city. A "wellness retreat," arranged by Vivienne and authorized, shockingly, by Killian's temporary medical power of attorney.
"You agreed to this?" she asked him, numb, just before the black car took her away.
Killian looked torn. "It's just for evaluation. A few days. Please... I just want you to feel better."
"I'm not sick."
"I don't know what else to do, Ava."
She didn't cry until the doors locked behind her.
Five days turned to ten.
Sedatives followed.
The nurses smiled too much.
Doctors asked about delusions. About imagined theft. About emotional swings.
Ava stopped speaking.
Stopped trusting.
Until one orderly slipped a paper into her hand.
It read:
They're watching. But you're not crazy. They just want you out of the way.
And with that seed of truth, Ava began to remember who she was.
She waited. She listened. She kept notes.
When she was finally released—after pressuring one of her lawyers to file for extraction using an external medical review—she walked out of the clinic alone.
No Killian.
No apology.
Only silence.
That night, she filed for divorce.
And vanished.
Back in the present, Ava stood on her balcony, watching the city below, her heart a stone in her chest.
She remembered everything.
The tea.
The lies.
The white coats.
The betrayal.
And now she was back. Not for revenge, she told herself. Not just.
But to reclaim the truth.
Because truth was power.
And Ava Callahan had lost hers once.
Never again.
***
Day 17 at Whitehall Wellness Facility.
The walls were pale blue. The ceiling hummed with fluorescent lighting. Everything smelled like sterilized plastic and muted despair.
Ava sat in the corner of her room—knees to her chest, gown too thin, heart too loud.
Outside the tiny, reinforced window, snow was falling. Soft, quiet. Like everything else here.
Her hair was unbrushed. Her voice, unused.
She hadn't spoken in days.Not to the doctors. Not to the nurse who called her "Mrs. Blake" like it was a curse. Not even to the kind janitor who sometimes left books beside her bed.
They had taken her phone.Her rights.Her dignity.
And worst of all, him. The man who promised to protect her. To love her. To believe her when no one else would.
"It's just stress," they told her."You're hallucinating the numbers.""Your husband signed the consent forms."
She hadn't screamed. Not once.
But tonight, she came close.
She stared at the IV drip in her arm, wondering what would happen if she ripped it out and ran. If anyone would believe her. If anyone remembered she was more than a diagnosis.
Then she heard it again.
A whisper outside her door.
"Callahan girl's not crazy," someone muttered. "The files don't match. Admin's hiding something."
A male voice.
She stood suddenly, barefoot on the cold tile, and crept toward the vent near the bottom of the door. She crouched, breathing shallow, and pressed her ear to the metal.
Silence now.
Then footsteps walking away.
But that was enough.
Something shifted inside her chest.
She wasn't imagining it.She wasn't paranoid.
They'd buried her in silence. And silence had almost killed her.
But not now.
Now, she was listening.
Day 22.
Ava requested a paper and pen. The nurse looked surprised, but brought them.
She wrote in block letters:
"I request a formal psychiatric re-evaluation under New York Mental Health Statute 9.31. I demand a hearing. I am of sound mind."
They tried to delay it.
They tried to sedate her again.
But the day she refused meds, stood tall in front of a doctor, and recited her legal rights word for word, the tides began to shift.
Within forty-eight hours, a public attorney was assigned.
Within seventy-two, Ava had legal counsel.
By day 28, she walked out, free.
No apologies.
No cameras.
No Killian waiting outside.
Just winter air and a city that had already begun forgetting her.
She checked into a hotel under a different name.
Burned every dress she wore to Blake family functions.
Changed her phone number. Shut down her social accounts.
And opened a new account in Zurich.
It was time to start over.
With rage as her spine and silence as her blade.
She tracked down the shell companies. Found the forged ledgers. Connected the dots that no one else had bothered to look at.
And when she saw Vivienne's name buried in the trustee files of a falsified charity fund—one that redirected Blake Corp money into private accounts—she knew.
This had never been about her instability.
It had always been about control.
Power.
Fear.
She was young. She had influence over Killian. She had ambition. Vivienne never liked what she couldn't puppet.
And Ava Callahan?Had never been built to kneel.
So she stopped crying.
And started planning.
She sold her shares. Built Calla Luxe from nothing. Crafted a luxury empire from sheer will.
And all while hiding one more truth...
Chloe.
Her daughter. Her secret.
The reason she hadn't burned it all to the ground.
Because fire could take everything. And Ava had already lost enough.
Back in the present, Ava sat in her study, the fireplace crackling quietly beside her.
In her hand was a photograph.
Not of Killian.
But of Chloe, taken two years ago in Geneva. Her cheeks rosy, curls wild, smiling as she clutched a stuffed fox.
Ava traced the image with her thumb.
She had survived the unthinkable. She had clawed her way back from the void.
But some scars never faded.
And the war wasn't over.
Not yet.
Because the Blake name still loomed over her daughter's existence like a shadow.And Vivienne Blake, if she ever discovered the truth—would weaponize it without hesitation.
Ava stood and locked the photo back inside her safe.
Then she walked out of the study, into Chloe's room, and watched her sleep for a long, quiet moment.
"No one will ever take you from me," she whispered.
Not again.
Not ever.
Flashback off**