Mark Vaughn stepped into the penthouse suite. The door clicked shut behind him, too loud in the silence.
He loosened his tie, scanning the room. Something was off.
A voice, clipped and cool, drifted from the kitchen nook.
"She's not here."
He turned, jaw already tight. "Mother. What are you doing here?"
Sophia Vaughn stood by the marble island, every inch the ice queen in her tailored navy dress. She held a glass of sparkling water like it was a weapon.
"I was bored. Your father's in Geneva and the estate was too quiet."
He ignored that. "Where's Ava?"
"She left. Last night. Hasn't returned."
He moved further in, slow and controlled. "Did something happen?"
Sophia's laugh was brittle. "Please. How would I know? The girl barely speaks. Polite. Quiet. Like a ghost passing through."
Mark leaned on the counter, his knuckles white against the granite. "She didn't say anything?"
"Not a word."
He exhaled, jaw flexing. "It's the weekend. Maybe she's with a friend."
Sophia took a sip of water, then murmured, "Or maybe she's with another man."
His head snapped toward her.
She met his gaze, unblinking. "Don't look at me like that. I called her phone. It went straight to voicemail," she went on.
Mark pushed off the counter, suddenly restless. "And you're just now telling me?"
"I thought she'd crawl back after a day. Clearly, I was mistaken."
The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the white walls and silver-framed wedding photos. Mark stared at one. Ava's smile in it looked half-forced.
Sophia's voice softened, just a touch. "Perhaps she's finally come to her senses."
Mark didn't respond.
He just kept looking at that photo as if the answer might be hiding in her eyes.
Mark moved swiftly to the living room, grabbing his phone from the glass coffee table. His fingers hesitated for a moment before he tapped Camila's name. She picked up on the third ring.
"Mark."
"Camila. Where's Ava?"
Camila sighed on the other end, her voice tight with weariness. "She left work last night and that was the last time I heard from her."
Mark's brows drew together. "What do you mean left work, don't you normally leave together?"
"She emailed her resignation. I've been calling her nonstop." Camila said. "I even went to the penthouse this morning, but your mother said she wasn't home."
"You should've told me."
"I figured you'd know," she said. "Or that she was with you."
"She's not." Mark paused. "Why did she resign?"
Camila sighed. "Honestly? I think the leaked video broke her."
Mark stilled. "What video?"
"You haven't seen it?"
His voice hardened. "Camila. What video?"
"The wedding," she said. "Someone leaked the footage of her entering a rundown motel. It's all over social media. I tried getting it taken down, but it's gone viral because of your family status."
Mark walked inside, grabbed his tablet from the marble counter, and pulled up the browser.
There it was.
#VaughnHoneymoonScandal was trending.
He clicked the first link. It was the video.
A dry lump caught in his throat. He had meant to belittle her not cause a family scandal.
Camila's voice came through again. "You didn't just marry her, Mark. You humiliated her. And now the world knows it."
He couldn't speak. Could barely think.
Where was Ava now? He wondered.
Later that night, Mark lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Still nothing from Ava. Not a message. Not a call.
His father's PR team had done their job, swift and efficient. The official statement claimed the video was doctored, a malicious attempt to smear the Vaughn family name. They even threatened legal action against unnamed enemies.
But Ava hadn't reached out.
Why?
He hadn't been the perfect husband, he could admit that much, in private at least. Distant, distracted, often absent in more ways than one. But he'd assumed she understood the arrangement. They both had roles to play, after all. Appearances to maintain.
Still, her silence gnawed at him. She always called, even when she was angry. Especially when she was angry. This quiet... it worried him. Could something have happened to her?
He reached for his phone again, stared at the empty screen, then set it back down. He would contact the police tomorrow if nothing came up.
....
The following morning, back at the hospital, Julian stood by the window, hands in his pockets, as the doctor examined Ava's wound.
"The stitches are holding well," the doctor said, making a few notes. "You can go home today. Just rest. No work, no lifting, and take your meds."
Once she was dressed, Julian stepped into the room.
"Where will you go?"
Ava looked down as she pulled her coat around her shoulders. "To my father's house."
"I'll drive you," he said, already reaching for her arm.
She shook her head. "You've done more than enough."
But he didn't budge. "I wasn't asking."
Outside, his black Range Rover waited at the curb. The leather interior of the Range Rover smelled faintly of cologne. Ava sat, one hand bandaged in a sling, staring out at the blur of passing buildings as he drove.
Julian tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. "Why aren't you going home?"
She smiled. "My nana will take better care of me," she said.
But the truth, the one she didn't want to say, was simpler; she didn't want to be alone. Not now.
They pulled up in front of her father's house, a neat, two-story home with weathered brick and ivy creeping along the side. A well-kept garden framed the walkway.
"This is it," Ava said softly.
Julian stepped out first, walking around to her side. He opened the door and extended his hand without a word. With gentle care, he helped her out, making sure not to jostle her injured arm.
As he drove off, Ava stood by the gate, watching the Range Rover disappear down the quiet street. A dull ache settled in her chest. Was she going to miss his company? Perhaps. But as she turned toward the front door, one thought lingered stubbornly in her mind.
She wanted him to call.
God help her, she wanted him to come back.