Chapter 12: The muzzle

Ava didn’t sleep.

The burner phone sat on the windowsill like a ticking bomb, dimly lit by the soft lavender hue of dawn. She had stared at the photo until her eyes ached Marcus, caught mid-step in what looked like a hotel lobby. Not suspicious. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like a chess piece nudged into position by invisible fingers.

The note scribbled on the back haunted her more than the image itself.

“He’s not who you think.”

She flipped it over again. Again. Again. Every time hoping the words would blur into meaninglessness. But they didn’t.

By 5 a.m., she’d saved Marcus’ contact under “Don’t Call” and then, twenty minutes later, restored it like a guilty confession. She hated what she was becoming: paranoid, obsessive, uncertain. Or maybe she hated realizing she was exactly what Grayson had wanted all along.

A woman uncertain of her reality.

A puppet deciding whether she still had strings.

The phone buzzed at 6:02 a.m. sharp.

Marcus Hale.

She let it ring three times before answering, her voice flat and cracked with exhaustion. “You were followed.”

“No,” Marcus said quietly. “You were watched.”

Silence.

Then: “They sent me a photo. Of you.”

“I figured,” he replied. “Grayson wants you paranoid. It makes you easier to manage.”

“Who took it?” she pressed.

He hesitated. “Probably Alaric. If not him, then someone in the house. Someone you don’t suspect yet.”

Ava closed her eyes. Her mind flashed to Luisa, smiling weakly in the kitchen. To the groundskeeper who never looked her in the eye. To the maid who had once accidentally called her “Lila.”

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” she whispered.

“That’s the point,” Marcus said. “It’s called a muzzle.”

She blinked. “A what?”

“When Grayson can’t threaten you into silence, he makes you question yourself. He muzzles you with confusion. With charm. With just enough truth to make the lies believable.”

Ava leaned against the cold glass, chest tightening. “So what do I do?”

“You leave. Now. Tonight. Before you’re too deep.”

She almost laughed. “It’s already too late.”

Elsewhere,

Grayson stood in his private study, bathed in morning shadows and half-dressed in a white shirt, cuffs undone. Alaric stood across from him, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“She didn’t sleep,” Alaric said. “She’s spiraling.”

Grayson smiled faintly. “Good.”

Alaric arched a brow. “You’re enjoying this?”

Grayson sipped his black coffee and stared at the screen showing Ava’s room. “Not enjoying. Strategizing.”

“She’s slipping through your fingers.”

“No,” Grayson said. “She’s just softening. That’s when they’re easiest to mold.”

A pause.

“Should I handle Marcus?” Alaric asked.

Grayson shook his head. “No. Let her think she’s playing both sides. Let her believe she still has choices. People cling harder to cages they believe they chose.”

That night, Ava stayed out of the main areas. She avoided the east wing. Avoided Luisa’s eyes. Avoided her own reflection.

Grayson found her on the rooftop balcony, curled in a shawl, watching the moon like it owed her something. He didn’t say her name. Just walked up beside her, the scent of cedar and scotch trailing in his wake.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said.

She didn’t turn. “I thought you didn’t care.”

He chuckled softly. “You always say that when you’re scared.”

She finally looked at him.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m scared. Scared of you. Scared of this house. Scared that I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Grayson’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Do you want to leave?”

Ava blinked. She hadn’t expected the question. Not from him.

“Would you let me?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned closer, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re not a prisoner, Ava.”

“No,” she said. “Just muzzled.”

That made him pause. Only briefly. Then his fingers moved lower, tracing the line of her jaw.

“I’d never silence you,” he said softly. “I’d just make you whisper.”

The kiss came like a storm after a drought slow, aching, a little dangerous. Ava responded out of hunger and hatred and longing. But when it broke, he leaned close and whispered into her ear:

“Marcus Hale won’t survive this. You know that, right?”

She pulled back, heart thudding. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he said with a calm smile. “It’s a fact. And I want you to remember I gave you the chance to walk away.”

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just went back to her room, locked the door, and found the envelope slipped beneath it.

No note. Just a USB drive and a plain label:

LILA 6 months before

Her fingers trembled as she slid it into her laptop.

The screen flickered.

Then played.

Grainy footage. Black-and-white. A girl running through a hallway.

Panic in her eyes. Blood on her sleeve.

The camera froze for a moment as she passed a mirror.

Ava inhaled sharply.

It wasn’t Lila.

It was her.