Chapter 3

The press conference started at precisely 10 a.m.

A wall of flashing cameras. Microphones like drawn swords. And me—center stage.

I stood at the podium inside Blake Financial’s atrium, a massive steel-and-glass structure that housed the country’s top investment minds. But today, the focus was on something else entirely—me.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming,” I began, calm, deliberate. “After a brief absence, I’m returning to take full leadership of Blake Financial’s upcoming strategic merger. And I will also be spearheading our next acquisition—beginning with Ricci Technologies.”

A ripple spread through the crowd like a dropped stone in still water.

The mention of Killian’s company—publicly, intentionally—wasn’t just business. It was bloodsport.

I smiled coolly. “We intend to work closely with the board of Ricci Technologies to restructure and reposition their assets for greater long-term viability. Which includes a full audit of internal leadership.”

Translation: your seat isn’t safe, Killian.

Across the room, I saw the reactions. Executives whispering. Cameras flashing wildly.

And in the very back—standing with clenched fists and a barely controlled scowl—was him.

Killian Joe

Late, of course. Uninvited, naturally. But present? Oh, very.

He was in a charcoal suit today. The kind that once screamed confidence. Now, it looked like a costume. A fading symbol of control slipping through his fingers.

I didn’t look away.

He did.

After the conference, I returned to my office, adrenaline humming under my skin. It wasn’t just about revenge. This was reclamation.

A knock sounded.

Before I could answer, the door opened—and a man stepped in. Tall. Effortlessly dressed in a black-on-black ensemble, with sharp eyes the color of winter steel.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t even blink.

“Grayson Wolfe,” he said smoothly. “I’m the strategist assigned to the merger… and the new liaison between our teams. You just became the most interesting player in the room, Ms. Blake.”

I studied him. Everything about him was deliberate—controlled chaos cloaked in charm. He looked like someone who didn’t mind playing dirty… as long as he won.

“Wolfe,” I said, gesturing for him to sit. “I’ve heard of you. Ruthless with numbers. Unapologetic with strategy.”

He grinned. “And allergic to boredom. Which means I like you already.”

I didn’t smile. But I didn’t look away either.

“And do you have an opinion on Ricci Technologies?”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Overinflated. Underled. He built it fast, but not deep.”

He. Not even the courtesy of a name.

I liked him more than I wanted to admit.

“And what about the man himself?”

Grayson leaned forward, voice dropping an octave. “Your ex is drowning, Ava. You just poured in a gallon of gasoline.”

I tilted my head. “Good. I hope he burns.”

He nodded slowly. “Careful. You might enjoy this war too much.”

“Good,” I whispered. “That’s the point.”

KILLIAN's pov

She stood up there like she’d never been broken.

Ava. My Ava.

Only… she wasn’t anymore. The Ava I knew looked at me with forgiveness, even when I didn’t deserve it. This version?

This one looked right through me.

It wasn’t just the takeover. It wasn’t just her announcement. It was the message behind every word she said:

I don’t need you.

I’m better without you.

And I’m coming for your crown.

I left the building before the reporters could swarm me, heart pounding, ears ringing.

Panic—foreign, unwelcome—coiled in my gut.

She wasn’t bluffing.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

Voicemail.

Again.

Again.

This time I left a message.

“Ava. You’ve made your point. Come home. Let’s talk like we used to—no press, no stage, no war. I never stopped loving you.”

I ended the call.

And for the first time since she left—I wasn’t sure if she’d ever come back.

AVA's pov

That night, I poured myself a drink as Grayson’s words replayed in my mind.

“He’s drowning. You just poured in a gallon of gasoline.”

And still… there was a part of me that remembered the way Killian used to whisper my name at 3 a.m., how his fingers would lace through mine as if I was the only real thing in his world.

I shook it off.

Love wasn’t the antidote to betrayal. Power was.

My phone buzzed.

Killian: I never stopped loving you.

I stared at the message.

Then deleted it.

I didn’t need his love.

I needed my crown.

And I was going to take it—with or without mercy.

AVA's pov

By evening, I was reviewing a breakdown of Ricci’s—no, Killian Joe’s—financial weak points in my penthouse office when Grayson walked in unannounced again.

No knock. No hesitation.

He dropped a file on my desk and crossed his arms. “The press is already calling you the Iron Widow. Has a nice bite to it.”

“Original,” I murmured, flipping through the documents. “They should try harder.”

“They will,” he said, pulling up a chair. “So should Killian. Word is he’s planning something—big. Probably public. Probably stupid.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Grayson smirked, leaning in. “My professional opinion is that men like him only get bold when they’re cornered. And you’re not just cornering him, Ava. You’re shoving his legacy off a ledge.”

“He had no problem tossing our marriage off one,” I said, voice even.

Silence hung between us like smoke.

Grayson watched me. Really watched me.

“You’re not afraid to scorch the earth, are you?”

“I was,” I admitted. “But fear got me nowhere. Pain did something far more powerful—it rewrote me.”

He didn’t blink. “I’d like to see more of that version.”

I met his gaze, pulse steady. “Be careful what you ask for, Wolfe. She doesn’t come with brakes.”

He smiled—slow and intrigued.

Not just interested. Invested.