The first thing I did after returning to New York from the Bahamas was lock myself in my walk-in closet.

This was my sanctuary, lined with expensive dresses and jewelry Liam had selected for me—now they all seemed to mock me silently from their hangers.


I leaned against a row of cold Chanel coats and pulled out my phone. My finger hovered over the screen before finally dialing a number I hadn't used in years.

The phone rang three times before a deep, raspy voice that practically smelled of tobacco answered.

"Who's this?"


"Ray," my voice was unnervingly steady, "it's Ava. Arthur Grant's daughter."

Silence hung on the line for several seconds. Then came a subtle shift in his tone. "Ava. I remember you. Held you when you were knee-high. Your father… I was sorry to hear."


"Thank you," I cut off his practiced sympathy, "I need your help with something."

I could picture him leaning back in a battered office chair, half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. "Shoot."

I took a deep breath, the cloying mix of designer perfumes and leather making me slightly nauseous.

"I need to find two people," I said, emphasizing each word. "One is my 'dead' husband, Liam Blackwood. The other is my best friend, Chloe Jennings."

His breathing paused. Ray had spent twenty years navigating New York's underworld and was my father's most trusted friend. He immediately understood everything those words implied.

No unnecessary questions followed.

"Give me 24 hours," he said, then hung up.

***

Less than twenty-four hours later, Ray texted me an address and time. Nothing more.

It was a low-key café in the East Village, nearly empty, with the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans hanging in the air.

Ray was already waiting in a corner booth when I arrived. He looked older than I remembered—salt-and-pepper hair, weathered leather jacket, and eyes sharp as an eagle's that seemed to cut right through you.

A cup of black coffee and a manila folder sat in front of him.

"Ava," he nodded in greeting.

I slid into the seat across from him without ordering anything.

"Everything you want to know is in here." Ray skipped the small talk and pushed the thick folder toward me.

My hand trembled slightly when I touched the folder but quickly steadied.

I opened it.

The first page contained the investigation report on Liam's "car accident." The police concluded the vehicle had plunged into the river with no recoverable remains. But Ray's report stated clearly: all biological samples from the vehicle didn't match Liam's DNA. His police department source confirmed the vaguely referenced "remains" actually belonged to an unidentified homeless person.

From the very beginning, Liam had used someone else's life to pave his escape route.

I turned to the second page.

Two photocopied fake passports. One for "Jason Smith"—a man in a terrible wig and black-framed glasses, but with Liam's unmistakable jawline and lips. The other for "Jessica Jones"—Chloe with her signature red hair dyed a dull brown and a strange smile.

Exit records showed they'd flown from Kennedy to Nassau the day after I'd held Liam's "funeral."

My fingertips went ice-cold, as if touching frozen glass rather than paper.

I kept turning pages.

A stack of grainy surveillance screenshots. At the security checkpoint, Liam's arm wrapped naturally around Chloe's waist as they talked with heads close together, intimate as lovers. At Nassau Airport, they'd changed into summer clothes—Chloe beaming, clutching Liam's arm with her head resting on his shoulder.

My heart felt squeezed by an invisible fist, making it hard to breathe.

Another stack of photos lay in the folder.

These were clearly taken with a telephoto lens from a distance, but sharp enough to capture every damning detail.

Liam and Chloe embracing by a private pool at Heaven's Gate. His bronzed chest glistening in the sun while Chloe wrapped around him like a serpent in that same black bikini I'd seen before.

They chased each other on the beach, shared candlelit dinners in upscale restaurants, every gesture dripping with the sweetness and abandon of new lovers.

Each photo was like a precision knife-strike to the softest parts of my memory, twisting mercilessly once embedded.

All the things he'd never done for me, all the romance he'd promised but never delivered—he now lavished on another woman.

I slowed my pace until my finger lingered on the final photo.

A selfie.

Against a backdrop of pink sand and spectacular sunset, Liam held up his phone, laughing without restraint, flashing a victory sign. Chloe nestled in his arms, face glowing with contentment, wearing the diamond necklace I'd given her—catching the sunset in blinding sparkles.

Their smiles, their happiness, that dream backdrop I'd longed to see—everything formed a perfect, cruel tableau.

I stared at that photo until my eyes burned.

Something shattered inside me—not the pain of heartbreak, but something colder and harder. Like an ice-covered lake suddenly cracking to reveal a bottomless black whirlpool beneath.

The last trace of sorrow, the final shred of fantasy—all turned to dust before this damned selfie.

I slowly closed the folder and met Ray's questioning gaze.

"What do you want to do?" he asked calmly. "We could go straight to the FBI. Financial fraud, faked death—enough to put him away for life."

My lips curved into a smile that felt foreign on my face.

"The police?" I shook my head gently, my voice as casual as if discussing the weather. "No, Ray. That would be letting them off too easily."

I watched the hurried pedestrians outside, no light reflecting in my dead eyes.

"First, I want them to lose everything—what they stole from me and everything they now possess," I said softly, each word cold as ice. "Reputation, money, freedom—all of it. I want to watch them fall from heaven, struggle in the mud, and then personally escort them to hell."

Ray studied me, approval flashing in his eyes, perhaps mixed with a touch of pity for his old friend's daughter. He didn't judge my decision, just nodded like the professional he was.

"First step. What's the play?"

"First, we force them back," I answered, my thoughts crystallizing with perfect clarity. "They're still spending my money in paradise. I'll cut off their funds and make their heaven unlivable—not even for one more day."

Ray pulled a small notebook and pen from the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket.

"Details."

"Liam only got the liquid portion of my pre-marital assets. I still have Blackwood Group shares and properties we purchased during our marriage." My voice was ice-cold and resolute. "He thought I was still that obedient wife who knew nothing about business. He was wrong."

Ray's pen moved rapidly across the yellowed paper.

"Freeze all his supplementary cards immediately. Lock down every overseas account linked to his false identities—cite 'suspected money laundering.'"

Ray looked up: "Banks will need time. And… connections."

"Money is no object," I met his gaze directly. "Your father helped mine years ago. Now I need your connections, Ray. Tell me—how much does it cost to get a Swiss banker out of bed at 3 AM?"