Chapter 6

Matthew stood frozen in the middle of the living room, eyes darting between Ava and Isabella. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching like he might reach for something, anything, to ground himself. The air between them was thick, almost suffocating.

Ava’s gaze was sharp, fierce, but her chest was tight with something deeper—shock, disbelief, betrayal, a hunger to just scream at him for standing there and letting this happen. Isabella, meanwhile, wore that same practiced, soft smile that made Ava want to punch her and cry at the same time.

Matthew opened his mouth, closed it again. The silence stretched, heavy. He looked at Isabella, then back at Ava.

“I… you can stay,” he said finally, voice hesitant, wavering. “Let’s… have breakfast together.”

Ava’s hand shot out before she even thought. She grabbed Isabella’s wrist, squeezing tight enough to make her flinch. “No,” Ava said, her voice low, dangerous. “You are leaving now. Go, I don’t care what you came here for—you are leaving.”

Isabella’s smile faltered ever so slightly, but her voice was syrupy, carefully measured. "Ava.....please, let me have breakfast with him. Let the morning be calm. It’s only breakfast.”

Ava shook her head, voice rising. “Peace? There is no peace when you’re here. This is my husband. This is my home. You are neither of those things, and you will not act as if you are.”

Matthew’s eyes snapped to her, sharp and sudden. “Ava! Stop!” His voice cracked, harsh and raw, louder than either of them expected. “She’s going nowhere! This… this is my house! My home! I can do whatever I want!”

Ava froze, pulse hammering in her ears. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, words sticking in her throat. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, the sharp sting of humiliation.

Isabella tilted her head slightly, lips curved in that carefully innocent way that always made Ava’s skin crawl. “Matthew… just for a moment. Let me have this. Please. Let me leave. For peace.”

Matthew hesitated, eyes flicking between them. Ava’s chest tightened, fingers flexing at her sides. Isabella’s hand brushed against his arm again, light and deliberate.

Matthew took a deep breath, the kind that sounded like it carried months of indecision. “Promise me something,” he said, eyes on Isabella now. “Promise me you’ll come back. You will visit again.”

Isabella’s eyebrows lifted. “Come back?” she asked, voice soft, teasing, like it was a joke, but her eyes glimmered with something darker.

“You heard me,” Matthew said, and the edge in his tone made Ava shiver despite herself. “No matter what, you come back.”

Isabella’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll come back.” Her voice was calm, but every inch of it screamed control.

She released his wrist, stepping back, as if her departure were nothing, as if it were a rehearsal she had performed a thousand times.

Matthew followed her to the door, hand brushing hers lightly—not a touch of affection, but a tether, a silent promise.

Ava stood frozen in the living room, mouth slightly open, disbelief written across her face. Her hands twitched, wanted to reach, wanted to pull him back, wanted to scream, wanted to collapse, wanted everything at once.

When the door clicked shut, she finally exhaled—but it came in ragged, sharp bursts. Her shoulders shook slightly as she tried to steady herself. Her heart was hammering like a drum she couldn’t stop.

She clenched her fists at her sides. “He… he let her…” she whispered, words breaking on the edge of tears. “He let her—”

Clara, who had been standing quietly in the hallway, finally stepped forward. “Ava,” she said softly, “you need to breathe.” Her voice was gentle, grounding. “This isn’t about her. It’s about him. Don’t let her presence control how you feel.”

Ava shook her head, swallowing hard. “I… I can’t…” Her voice cracked. “I can’t believe he…”

Clara laid a hand on her shoulder, firm but reassuring. “Yes. You can. Because he’s confused. He’s… broken right now. And that’s why you need to be the one standing strong.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. She looked over at the table, where breakfast was waiting, still untouched. She wanted to throw it across the room, scream, demand answers—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She had to think.

Her gaze drifted back toward the door Isabella had just left through. Something in the way Matthew had walked her out, the light in his eyes, the soft smile he had given her—something primal, sharp, and infuriating—made her blood boil.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t going to scream. She wasn’t going to cry.

She walked to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, and pressed her hands around it, letting the warmth seep into her palms. Her mind was racing, plotting every step. Every quiet revenge. Every return of power. Every moment where she would make Matthew see—truly see—the mistake he was making.

Matthew opened the door and stepped in.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said softly to no one in particular, voice trembling with barely controlled fury.

From the living room, Matthew’s voice carried back. “I’ll eat later.”

Her grip on the mug tightened. “Later,” she repeated under her breath. Her teeth ground together. “Yes. Later. We’ll see who waits.”

She moved to the window, watching the street outside. The morning light was pale and indifferent, the same that had crept into the room hours ago. It seemed cruel now. A quiet witness to her heartbreak.

Ava pressed her forehead against the cool glass, breathing in deeply. She could feel the tension in her chest, the fire in her veins. She didn’t have to cry. She didn’t have to let him see that he hurt her more than anything else in the world.

Her hands tightened around the mug again. She was learning, slowly, carefully, that anger could be sharpened, focused. That the hurt could be weaponized and resolved. That this house, this home, was hers as much as his.

And she would not let anyone, not Isabella, not anyone, take that away.

Matthew’s footsteps echoed from the hallway as he moved past, heading toward his study, perhaps, or the bedroom. His presence was still there, looming, tempting, maddening.

Ava let the mug fall onto the countertop, almost dropping it. The clatter was a punctuation mark in the quiet house. She didn’t flinch.

No, she wouldn’t flinch.

She wiped her hands on a napkin, squared her shoulders, and turned back to the breakfast. The eggs were slightly overcooked. The toast is too brown. But it didn’t matter.

She would wait. And when the time came, when she finally helps him restore his memory...… Isabella would know whose husband he truly belonged to.

And Isabella would learn exactly how far Ava could go when pushed too far.

The morning light stretched longer, pouring into the kitchen. Quiet, deceptive.