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Not in a pool of blood.
Not dead.
“I’ll get ready,” she says without emotion.
“You’re going back with him?” Ariella whisper-yells. “But why? I can drive you home.”
Before I can correct that Ava’s home is now my house—not that she would admit it out loud—she waves Ariella away. “There’s no need.”
I don’t like the note in her voice. It’s not a resignation to her fate. It’s the very intention to fight it until the very end.
The irony.
I resist the urge to smile. Then again, I never liked Ava for her meekness. I’ve had too many willing people in my life. It’s refreshing to be presented with a fight for a change.
At every turn.
For every word.
Yes, I contemplate breaking her neck sometimes, but that neck is too pretty to be broken.
As if sensing my murderous gaze, she looks up and narrows her eyes.
For all intents and purposes, Ava is every man’s wet dream. She possesses a model’s face that somehow can also pass for an innocent girl next door. Rosebud lips in her favorite color—pink. Big, intrusive blue eyes that rival the North Sea’s depths and the sky’s hollowness during an eclipse. A body made for fucking. And an attitude that will get her killed—and almost has countless times.
I’d like to take the opportunity to applaud my immaculate resolve to keep that pretty head in place all this time.
It takes massive control and self-discipline to remain calm in her provoking presence.
Though to be fair, it’s been a long time since she lost the spark, so seeing it back is a welcome change.
For now.
She hikes a hand on her hip. “Some privacy?”
“There’s no privacy between a married couple.”
“Yeah, well, that might be your version, but it’s certainly not mine. Go away.”
What was that about applauding my resolve? Oh yes, I can’t actually kill my wife. That’s a felony in almost all countries as far as I’m aware.
“You have fifteen minutes.”
“I can’t even do my makeup in fifteen minutes!”
“Fifteen, Ava.” I close the door before she throws something at me.
She doesn’t need makeup, for Christ’s sake.
But then again, she’s always had this strange concept about herself.
A concept full of inferiorities and muddied thoughts—and until recently, extremely destructive actions.
I walk down the hall of the elegant private clinic that could rival a five-star hotel and bring out my phone.
“Sir,” Henderson, my trusted special assistant, as he likes to call himself, answers after the first ring.
“Have the car ready in ten.”
