RECLAIMING AVA

Ava sat in front of the doctor, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she waited for him to speak about the results.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something floral, an attempt at comfort that only made her stomach churn harder. The ticking clock on the wall felt louder than it should have been, each second stretching, dragging, reminding her how long she had waited for this moment. Five years of waiting. Five years of questions no one wanted answered.

The doctor adjusted his glasses, eyes scanning the file in his hands. He had that careful look people wore when they were about to say something that couldn’t be taken back.

Ava forced her shoulders to relax.

She had prepared for this…or at least she thought she had.

She had imagined being told there was something wrong with her. Something small, maybe. Something fixable. Or something big enough to finally justify all the whispers, the insults, the disappointment that lived in the Donovan household. At least then, it would make sense. At least then, the blame would have a name.

“Mrs. Donovan,” the doctor began.

“Yes,” she replied softly.

He flipped a page. Cleared his throat.

“Your results came back normal.”

Ava blinked.

Normal..

The word didn’t settle the way she expected it to. It didn’t bring relief. It didn’t bring joy. It just hovered there, suspended, confusing.

“There are no abnormalities,” the doctor continued. “Your reproductive health is perfectly fine.”

Her fingers tightened together.

Perfectly fine.

For a brief, dangerous moment, hope flickered. Maybe this meant there was still time. That the past five years hadn’t been wasted after all.

Then the doctor exhaled slowly and turned the file around.

“But your husband’s results,” he said carefully, “tell a different story.”

Ava felt the room tilt.

“He has a severely low sperm count,” the doctor went on. “To the point where natural conception would be extremely difficult without medical intervention.”

The words landed one after another, heavy and unforgiving.

Low sperm count, extremely difficult

Need medical intervention…

Ava stared at the file as if it belonged to someone else. As if this wasn’t the answer she had begged for and feared in equal measure.

“So… it’s not me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The doctor met her eyes, gentle but firm. “No, Mrs. Donovan. It was never you.”

Never.

The word cracked something open inside her.

Images rushed in without permission. Giselle Donovan’s cold eyes. The way Landon’s silence had grown heavier each year. The dinners where conversations about children were spoken as if Ava wasn’t sitting right there. The pitying looks. The insults disguised as concern.

All of it.

She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe.

The doctor continued speaking, explaining options, treatments, probabilities. Ava heard none of it. Her ears rang, her chest tight with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.

Anger, maybe.

Or grief.

Or the cruel clarity of realizing she had been punished for someone else’s failing.

She reached for the results and folded them carefully, her movements slow, deliberate. If she moved too fast, she might shatter. If she moved too slow, she might never leave this room.

“Thank you,” she said, standing up.

The doctor hesitated. “Would you like me to speak to your husband?”

Ava paused.

She thought of Landon’s voice, sharp with accusation. Thought of the way he had looked at her lately, like she was already something he had lost patience with.

“No,” she said finally. “I’ll handle it.”

She slipped the results into her bag, her hand lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

Because inside that thin folder was the truth.

And truth, Ava was beginning to understand, was power.

Ava left the room without another word. The sterile smell of the hospital corridor hit her again, and she breathed it in, deliberately, letting it anchor her to reality. Her heels clicked against the tile, echoing, loud enough that it almost felt like a warning to the world: she was here. And she knew the truth.

Her mind replayed the last five years in a loop so sharp it felt like a blade pressed against her chest. every accusation, every bitter smile, every glance from Landon that carried disappointment as if she had personally betrayed him. Every time Giselle’s eyes had shone with that calculated superiority, that icy assertion that Ava was… inadequate.

And she had believed it.

She had taken it all. Every insult. Every humiliation. Every whispered “it’s her fault she can’t give the Donovans an heir.” She had carried it silently, folded it inside her chest, thinking that if she endured enough, it would be worth something. That Landon’s love—real or imagined—would outweigh the poison of his mother’s venom.

And now she knew the truth.

It wasn’t her fault.

Her chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t sorrow. Not exactly. It was… something else. Something heavier. A furious, simmering awareness that all those years of subjugation, of bending and smiling and pretending, had been for nothing but someone else’s ego.

Ava’s fingers toyed with the edge of her bag where the results lay, safe and unread by anyone else. That small folder contained more power than she had ever been given before. It wasn’t just proof, it was leverage. Evidence of every lie that had been told about her, every whispered insinuation. Landon’s impotence, the Donovans’ cruelty, the foundation of her suffering.

And for the first time since all these years, she didn’t feel the urge to beg for forgiveness.

She didn’t even feel the urge to scream.

She felt… calm.

she considered going straight home. To confront them. Throw the folder on the dining table. Watch them choke on the truth. Watch Giselle’s perfect composure crumble. Watch Landon’s smug arrogance shatter.

But something stopped her.

Timing.

And opportunity.

She walked past the nurses’ station, ignoring their curious glances, and headed for the elevator. The doors slid open with a mechanical sigh, and she stepped inside, gripping her bag like a shield. Then she heard it.

A voice. Calm. Controlled. Low, but carrying the unmistakable weight of someone used to having people listen.

“…one year. One year, Doctor. I want the treatment to work. It has to work.”

Ava froze mid-step. Her heart thumped violently. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the voice… she recognized it.

Greyson Beaufort.

The billionaire. The man who owned half the city in hotels and properties, the one Landon always whispered about with bitterness, the one who made headlines for boardroom victories before most people had their first cup of tea. And here he was, standing in the hospital hallway, talking to a doctor in hushed, urgent tones.

She strained to hear the rest, her pulse quickening.

“…if the treatment succeeds, you can manage the next year and can live but If it fails… then the succession plan will fall into the wrong hands.”

Ava’s mind worked faster than she wanted it to. Succession plan? Wrong hands? She knew enough about high-powered families to know when someone was cornered. Greyson was not just rich. He was being hunted, strategically. And he was sick. Terminally, probably.

Her chest tightened again—not fear, exactly, but recognition. The Opportunity. This was a man who needed… something. An heir. A plan. Someone to protect his legacy while he could still control it.

A shiver ran down her spine.

The elevator dinged, pulling her out of the hallway. She walked past Greyson without being noticed. She almost told herself she had to forget what she heard, that it wasn’t her business. But something inside her some instinct she hadn’t trusted in years, whispered that this was the moment she had been waiting for.

That her life, finally, could pivot.