The last thing I remembered was the cold. It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones, mocking the thin dress you wore. I was dying in a dark, abandoned warehouse, our son Leo trembling beside me. Then, his voice. Over the kidnapper' s phone, Harrison Hayes, the man I' d loved for years, flatly declared: "Wrong number. I don' t know them." He didn' t know me. He didn' t know Leo. Five years of a miserable marriage dissolved into one brutal truth: he resented me, seeing my existence as the ruin of his life. My death, simply a convenient erasure. And then, nothing. A profound, silent void. Until, a voice, warm and familiar, broke through the darkness: "Ava? Happy birthday." My eyes snapped open. I wasn't in a warehouse. I was at my 21st birthday dinner, staring at a younger Harrison, before the resentment carved lines around his mouth. This was the night it all began, the night I confessed my desperate love. But this time, the memory of his callous "Wrong number" burned. The phantom ache of my son' s absence was a hollow void in my chest. I would not make the same mistake. I would not confess. I would let him go. I would let him have his perfect life with his perfect Charlotte. When Charlotte Evans, his first love, walked in, I didn't fight. I left. I walked out into the cool night, hailing a cab, for the naive girl I had been, for the son who would now never exist. The pain was immense. But underneath it, a fragile seed of freedom took root. I wouldn' t be a victim. I would save myself. My first call was to my parents' lawyer. I was activating a forgotten betrothal agreement. I was going to Daniel Thorne.
The last thing I remembered was the cold.
It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones, mocking the thin dress you wore.
I was dying in a dark, abandoned warehouse, our son Leo trembling beside me.
Then, his voice.
Over the kidnapper' s phone, Harrison Hayes, the man I' d loved for years, flatly declared: "Wrong number. I don' t know them."
He didn' t know me.
He didn' t know Leo.
Five years of a miserable marriage dissolved into one brutal truth: he resented me, seeing my existence as the ruin of his life.
My death, simply a convenient erasure.
And then, nothing.
A profound, silent void.
Until, a voice, warm and familiar, broke through the darkness: "Ava? Happy birthday."
My eyes snapped open.
I wasn't in a warehouse.
I was at my 21st birthday dinner, staring at a younger Harrison, before the resentment carved lines around his mouth.
This was the night it all began, the night I confessed my desperate love.
But this time, the memory of his callous "Wrong number" burned.
The phantom ache of my son' s absence was a hollow void in my chest.
I would not make the same mistake.
I would not confess.
I would let him go.
I would let him have his perfect life with his perfect Charlotte.
When Charlotte Evans, his first love, walked in, I didn't fight.
I left.
I walked out into the cool night, hailing a cab, for the naive girl I had been, for the son who would now never exist.
The pain was immense.
But underneath it, a fragile seed of freedom took root.
I wouldn' t be a victim.
I would save myself.
My first call was to my parents' lawyer.
I was activating a forgotten betrothal agreement.
I was going to Daniel Thorne.
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