Chapter 9: Clause 17

It had been twenty-four hours since Ava read Clause 17.

Twenty-four hours since her world tilted on its axis.

She hadn’t spoken to Grayson since.

She couldn’t. Not yet.

Not until she figured out what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

The morning sun poured through the bedroom windows like nothing was wrong like the universe hadn’t just flipped her reality inside out. She sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing against the velvet folder that still held the contract.

Grayson had gone to the gym. Or maybe to hell. She didn’t care.

The house was quiet too quiet. The staff avoided her gaze. Even Luisa, the housekeeper who usually smiled and offered fresh croissants, had only nodded, eyes darting away like she knew too much.

Ava opened the folder again.

Clause 17.

She could still hear her own voice reading it aloud the night before:

“In the event of emotional entanglement, Party B (Ava Sinclair) shall submit to full confidentiality protocols as deemed appropriate by Party A (Grayson Wolfe), including but not limited to supervised communication, restricted media access, and travel limitations until the contract’s natural or negotiated dissolution.”

What the actual hell did that mean?

Emotional entanglement? Supervised communication?

It wasn’t a marriage clause. It was a prison sentence.

And the worst part?

Her signature was there. Perfect. Inked.

Like it had always been.

When she’d confronted him, Grayson had only said, “It’s a backup version. Created in case things got complicated.”

Complicated.

That was a hell of a word for this.

She closed the folder and stood up.

This wasn’t fear anymore.

This was fire.

She crossed the room and pulled open her vanity drawer, retrieving a small USB drive. She clipped it into her laptop. Inside: screenshots from Grayson’s black phone, a voice memo he didn’t know she’d saved, and now… the full version of the contract.

She was building a backup of her own.

Ava Grace Sinclair might have walked into this marriage desperate, blind but she wasn’t going to stay that way.

She put on a coat and stepped out. She had somewhere to be.

The coffee shop on 4th Street was tucked behind a flower stall and a cinnamon-scented bookstore. Her kind of quiet peaceful but sharp.

She slid into the booth, tightening her coat. The barista placed her usual almond milk latte, extra shot on the table without asking.

And then she appeared.

Dark lipstick. Oversized sunglasses. A gray trench that looked too heavy for her frame.

Vanessa Wolfe.

Grayson’s ex-fiancée.

The woman who disappeared two years ago without a trace.

Ava swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Vanessa removed her glasses slowly. Her eyes were unreadable. “I wasn’t going to. But then I remembered what it felt like to sleep beside a man who turns your life into a contract.”

Ava blinked. “So this isn’t just about me.”

Vanessa stirred her tea. Didn’t drink. “Grayson plays long games. Makes you think you’re choosing but he’s already moved your next three steps.”

Ava leaned in, her voice low. “What’s Clause 17, Vanessa? What happens if I don’t follow it?”

Vanessa’s gaze sharpened. “You disappear. Not violently. Not loudly. He’s too calculated for that. But emotionally? Socially? Professionally? You vanish. People stop calling. Brands stop replying. Friends ghost you without reason. You watch your life dissolve and can’t prove who pulled the string.”

Ava’s fingers curled around her coffee cup. “I didn’t sign Clause 17.”

Vanessa’s smile was bitter. “Neither did I.”

Silence stretched. And then Vanessa added, “Whatever you’re planning… be sure you finish it. Because if he senses hesitation, he’ll finish it for you.”

Back at the mansion, Grayson was waiting.

Not pacing. Not angry. Just still.

He stood by the fireplace with a glass of scotch and that impossible stillness she once found comforting. Now, it chilled her.

“You’re back late,” he said without turning.

“I had coffee,” she replied.

“With Vanessa Wolfe?”

His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t shake. It sliced.

Ava didn’t answer.

Grayson finally turned, his gaze heavy. “She’s bitter. You know that, right?”

“Or maybe she’s finally free.”

He stepped toward her. Slow. Controlled. “I protected you.”

“No,” she said, lifting her chin, “you controlled me. Watched me. Documented me. And when I started thinking for myself, you had a clause ready to cage me.”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression regret? Guilt? Or just surprise that she’d found her voice?

“I did what I had to do,” he said. “You think you’re the only one afraid of falling?”

Ava stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “Then maybe it’s time I do what I have to do.”

She brushed past him.

Heels clicking like war drums on marble.

Up the stairs.

Into her room.

This time, she didn’t cry.

She documented.

She charged her phone. Backed up her files. Created a hidden folder. And opened a blank note.

One name at the top:

Vanessa Wolfe.

Underlined twice.

She wasn’t just reacting anymore.

She was planning.