26. Ava

The afternoon suncasts the room in a golden glow, painting everything with lazy warmth as I nestle into my favorite armchair. It's threadbare, but it's mine. Ethan's shower might have been a cascade of luxury, but my humble bathroom offers its own brand of comfort, the hot water working miracles on my stiff muscles. Now, cocooned in my blankets that carry the clean, comforting scent of lavender, I let myself drift toward sleep, my head finding the perfect nook in the lumpy pillow for a blissful nap.

A scream slices through the tranquility like a knife, jerking me from the edge of sleep. Disoriented, I linger in the space between dreaming and wakefulness, half expecting Tyler's reassuring presence beside me, but the reality is a cold, empty space. Hugging myself, I take a steadying breath, letting the familiar scents of home reel me back to the present. The mouthwatering aroma of food cooking beckons, my stomach chiming in with a rumble of approval.

Determined to leave the unsettling remnants of my dream behind, I rise, my feet padding softly against the cold floor. The promise of food guides me out of the bedroom, where Tyler wields a spatula with the ease of a seasoned chef. His back is to me, his muscles shifting under the fabric of his shirt as he flips a grilled cheese with a flick of his wrist. A wave of desire hits me, sparking fantasies of tracing those muscles with my fingertips, of stealing a kiss, of tasting him…

He turns, and the sunlight crowns him in a halo of light, accentuating his chiseled jaw and the playful spark in his eyes. "Hungry?" His voice is a velvet caress, rich and inviting. A flush spreads across my cheeks as his gaze sweeps over me, lingering just a moment too long on my hastily chosen dress.

For you. Yes. "Just a bit," I reply, my voice a mix of eagerness and restraint as I accept the sandwich he offers. The world outside the kitchen window transitions to the soft hues of twilight, and I find myself nibbling on the sandwich, each bite an attempt to anchor myself to the present so I don't have to think about the future—the one where I have to see my dad.

"Sit. Eat," Tyler instructs, his tone gentle yet commanding. I comply, feeling a bit like a marionette as I limp to the table, my movements exaggerated by the stiffness in my leg. The apartment, small and unassuming, suddenly feels transformed by his presence, every corner touched by a sense of belonging. I notice the small changes—the tidiness that wasn't there before, and the vase of freshly cut flowers that adds a splash of color and life to the room.

"I hope this is all right," he says, a hint of vulnerability in his voice as he gestures to the makeshift dinner setup.

"It's perfect," I whisper, the words barely escaping as I realize our time is fleeting, overshadowed by the impending dinner with my estranged father. The thought constricts my heart with a mix of dread and resignation.

Time seems to exist in a bubble, where I don't want it to speed up, but it does. Evening descends, and the streetlamps outside bathe the world in a soft, orange glow. Tyler's kiss on my forehead sparks a cascade of goose bumps, his proximity a bittersweet reminder of what I could lose. "Don't think for one second we won't have eyes on you, Ava," he murmurs, his breath a warm whisper against my ear, igniting comfort and longing. "You are never alone, Ava. Even if you can't see or feel us yet, we feel you."

With Tyler gone, the apartment feels emptier, the silence louder. I watch his retreating figure through the window, a knot of anxiety in my stomach as the clock ticks down to my father's arrival. Fingers trembling, I touch the cool pearls on my neck, the last vestige of my mother, and brace myself. Donning a simple, elegant wrap dress and cardigan feels like armor as I brace myself for the inevitable scrutiny of my father's judging gaze.

I catch my reflection—a mix of elegance and compliance, ready for an occasion far removed from the casual dinner that awaits. The absurdity of molding myself to fit his expectations strikes me, and I'm left pondering the delicate balance between peacekeeping and self-erasure.

As my father's black sedan rolls up, a twist of unease knots in my stomach. Each time he shows up, it feels like stepping onto a stage, the spotlight too bright and the audience too critical. I expect no grand greetings from Dad. With a sigh that feels like it's dredging up resignation and defiance, I lean on my crutches as if they're the only ally I have in facing my dad. I grab my purse and make my way to the door.

Sebastian, my father's driver, greets me, his face weathered by years of navigating my father's demands. He's caught in a moment of hesitation, his knock suspended in midair. "Bast," I say, injecting a bit of warmth into the chilly air between us.

He smiles, his features transforming into a vivid expression of joy and resilience. "Well, let me have a look at you," he says, his voice a comforting blend of gravel and silk. "Beautiful as always, just like your mama," he adds, and today of all days, his words strike a chord, sending a ripple of emotion through me. I quickly divert my gaze, not ready to explore the depths of that sentiment.

I shift the conversation to lighter territory. "How's Minnie?" I ask, eager to hear tales of his feisty little Yorkshire terrier.

"Ah, as spirited as ever." Sebastian chuckles, his laughter a welcome distraction from the tension.

"Would you mind locking up?" I request, making my way to the front door with a show of independence. Sebastian is already there, a step ahead, his actions speaking volumes of his quiet support. "Thank you," I murmur, feeling a wave of gratitude mixed with a tinge of melancholy.

"Pleasure's all mine, Ms. Thompson," he responds, his smile sincere but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. The way he emphasizes my father's last name, and not my mama's, is a soft warning. I nod in acknowledgment, silently bracing myself to face my dad.

As I settle into the car, the leather seat feels like an old friend, despite the company. I brace myself as Dad's presence fills the space, like a silent force field of expectation and scrutiny. His greeting is absent, his attention fixed somewhere beyond me.

"Hello, Daddy," I say, offering a kiss on his cheek in a gesture that feels more like a diplomatic obligation than a display of affection.

"Ava," he replies, his voice detached, as if we're actors reading from a script that's lost its meaning.

Sebastian starts the car, and we're off, navigating through the cityscape as the silence between us builds. Dad sits there, an enigma in his tailored suit, while I'm left wondering why we keep up this charade, dancing around the topics that should be at the forefront of our conversation. It's a familiar routine, yet beneath the surface, questions and possibilities swirl, hinting at bridges yet to be built, paths yet to be explored.

The car slices through town like a knife through butter, heading toward the cookie-cutter kingdom, where mansions sprawl on manicured hills, each a mirror image of the next. They loom like giants, stripped of personality, a parade of wealth frozen in an endless loop of sameness.

"I expect you to be on your best behavior." Dad's voice cuts through the silence, as rigid and cold as the iron gates we pass. Bast turns onto a driveway that spirals up to a mansion that could be the twin of its neighbors, each a shrine to pristine white walls and sandblasted stone, devoid of any spark of life or color. My heart sinks. It's as soulless as a mausoleum, and nothing like the home my guys put together.

Mine. The thought strikes me. When did I start thinking of them as mine?

I slowly swivel to face Dad, offering him a smile sharpened with a hint of defiance. "I often am," I retort, my sass veiled under a thin layer of politeness. He doesn't bite. He doesn't even twitch. It's like he's been replaced by an automaton, all his human warmth siphoned off and leaving nothing but a shell, yet his ice-blue eyes flicker with unspoken thoughts. They are a stark contrast to his robotic exterior, whispering secrets and silent judgments that dance on the edge of my consciousness.

I realize I've been skirting around the truth of who my father really is, wrapping myself in a blanket of ignorance, but as Bast brings the car to a halt in front of the mansion, my stomach knots with anxiety, each flutter a prelude to the impending confrontation.

Bast exits the car with a precision that speaks of years of service, but instead of ushering us out, he pauses—an action so out of character, it sends my pulse racing. Dad turns to me then, his gaze sweeping over me with the chill of a winter's dawn. "Ava," he begins, his tone flat, "the Castellon family expects a certain level of decorum from you. Do you understand?"

Swallowing the fear that threatens to choke me, I nod in reply, reduced from a confident adult to a child. My compliance is automatic—a conditioned response to his authority.

"You will speak only when spoken to," he dictates, as if I'm nothing more than a puppet in his hands. A tiny nod is all I can muster, my rebellion quashed under the weight of his expectations.

Then, something within me stirs—a fiery blend of anger and courage. "No," I state, my voice trembling but determined. "I didn't agree to be here. I didn't agree to an arranged marriage. I'm here under duress because you threatened everything I love." It's a declaration of war, my words a defiant flag raised against the tyranny of tradition.

"Your agreement is irrelevant, Ava." His response is alarming, a stark reminder of the power he wields. "You're walking the path I laid out for you, just as your mother did before you."

My mama? Anger swells inside of me. I hate him more in this moment that I ever have.

As Bast opens the door and Dad emerges with the grace of a predator, it hits me—the real danger isn't the unknown or the paranormal beings I've faced. It's the man who raised me, the one who believes he can sell me off, even though I'm an adult.

Frantically, I text Ethan—my last beacon of hope.

Me:Something's wrong. Dad's motives aren't clear, and I think I'm walking into a trap.

Ethan:Get the fuck out of there.

Torn between the urge to flee and the desire to stand my ground, I hesitate.

Me:I need to tell him how I feel, and then I'm coming home.

Ethan:Just say the word, and I'll kill anyone who dares to keep you from me.

Me:Keep your engine running.

I step out of the car, and it feels like I'm entering a lion's den, with only my wit and a shred of hope as my armor. I hastily tuck my phone into the depths of my purse, clutching onto it as my secret hope for an emergency exit plan. Bast gives me a look, piercing and knowing, as if he's read every secret thought I've ever had. It's unsettling, this feeling of being exposed, as if he's glanced into the shadows of my life.

With a grace that I muster up from who knows where, I place my hand in Bast's. Despite the pain of my recent injuries and my period, I manage to step out of the car without a hint of instability. It's a small victory, but given that my period is usually a three-day whirlwind, I'll take any win I can get.

"One day down, two to go," I mumble to myself.

Suddenly, the matron of the Castellon family materializes around the car, her presence announced by a high-pitched squeal that cuts through the evening air. "Oh, there she is!" Mrs. Castellon exclaims, her excitement palpable as her heels click a determined rhythm on the pavement. The matriarch of the Castellon empire is not at all what I expected. "Oh, aren't you just a beauty?"

Her compliment, if it can be called that, earns a polite smile from me. Up close, Mrs. Castellon is…surprising. Her attempt at elegance is overshadowed by a style reminiscent of a bygone era, complete with bleached blonde hair and a jumpsuit that screams politician's wife trying too hard. The blue eyeliner, a relic from the past, does her no favors.

Comparing my current state, complete with a broken ankle and crutches, to her meticulously curated appearance, I can't help but feel like the embodiment of a hot mess express.

"Goodness, my Elijah is just going to adore you," she proclaims, her voice reaching a pitch that almost qualifies as another squeal. Internally, I've already nicknamed her Miss Piggy, though that's a thought I'll guard closely. Expressing such a sentiment aloud isn't in the cards. Well, maybe later.

Before I have a chance to stabilize myself with my crutches, she hooks her arm through mine, dragging me with her. My balance immediately teeters to the side, and her sudden movement nearly sends me sprawling—a tactical maneuver on her part, no doubt.

Suddenly, I'm caught by another set of arms, these ones soft, lacking the rough edges of someone used to physical labor. "Ava, are you all right?" he asks, his voice smooth but somehow lacking genuine concern. I look up, squinting against the fading light, into eyes that share the same hue as Miss Piggy's but are filled with a whole different set of intentions.

He looks like he's never worked a day in his life, but damn, he wears it well. A rogue curl falls across his forehead, highlighting the sprinkle of freckles and a smile that could light up the darker corners of my skepticism. Yeah, he's cute. Scratch that, he's a walking, talking temptation.

His mother's shrill voice pierces the quiet night. "Oh, a perfect match!" she squeals. "She's literally falling for him already."

Heat floods my cheeks at her words. Because you damn near tripped me, bitch.

"Mother." Elijah tries to temper his mom's enthusiasm, his cheeks flushing a vivid shade of red that screams mortification.

Mrs. Castellon, unfazed and brimming with glee, makes me yearn for an escape. "Well, let's go inside before it gets too chilly," she chirps, clasping her hands together like she's about to receive the world's best secret. "We can retreat to the parlor and have a drink before dinner."

I hate her.

I find myself casting a glance at my father, who stands in quiet conversation with Elijah's father—a man who mirrors my dad in age but carries a presence that's both imposing and unsettling. Elijah, the spitting image of his father, lacks only the years and the weight that his father carries, yet his eyes hold a coldness that makes my skin crawl.

"Let me help you inside." Elijah's voice pulls me back from my observations, his hand gently pressing against my elbow, guiding me with a carefulness that feels at odds with the grandeur of the mansion looming before us. My ankle screams with every step on the grand staircase. I'm going to have to put it up and ice it later. Maybe I can convince the guys to make me tacos.

Why does it feel like I'm the only one who thinks crutches aren't a fashion faux pas?

"I hear you are a veterinarian." Elijah attempts what could generously be called small talk. His tone is curious, but it feels like we're tiptoeing around the real questions.

"I am," I reply, injecting as much pride into my voice as I can muster under the circumstances. Why did I even come here?

"Are you attached?" He throws the question out casually as we step into the grand parlor, but it lands like a bomb. I blink, thrown off by the sudden shift from small talk to personal interrogation.

"Excuse me?" The question slips out, edged with a blend of surprise and annoyance. His inquiry, vague yet invasive, demands clarity.

"Are you attached?" he repeats, his eyes searching mine for an answer that might as well be written in a foreign language for all the sense it makes.

Oh, so he meant to say that bullshit.

"Yes," I retort before I can stop myself, my response more of a defiant reflex than a considered reply. My clinic, my first love, now seems like a distant dream that my father and now Elijah are hell-bent on stealing from me.

Elijah guides me to a chair that promises a moment of comfort, and I practically fall into it, my ankle screaming in pain. Elijah's expression darkens as he watches me, the air thick with the scent of cigar smoke.

The parlor, with its oversized fireplace and lavish furnishings, feels less like a room and more like a stage set for judgment. Miss Piggy perches on a loveseat, her presence as overwhelming as her personality.

"Sell it," Elijah's father states as he puffs on a cigar, his large frame settling into a chair. "What's it worth? A few thousand?"

Surprise renders me speechless. He can't be serious.

I'm still reeling from the shock of the conversation's turn when my father casually usurps my chance to respond, declaring, "I had it assessed just this morning." My jaw practically detaches and hits the floor. "It's worth half a million."

"I thought it'd be worth more than that," Elijah muses, striding over with two drinks in his hands. When I hesitate, he places the tumbler before me with a pointed look, his nostrils flaring in a way that morphs his handsome features into something ominously villainous. His grip tightens around my wrist, a silent command veiled under the guise of courtesy. "Drink up, darling."

The room, steeped in the warmth of a grand fireplace that casts long shadows over opulent furnishings, suddenly feels colder. Mr. Castellon, puffing away at his cigar with an air of indifference, suggests, "Well, we can either upgrade it or sell as is." He settles into his chair like a king surveying his court, seemingly ready to dismiss the clinic—and by extension, my life's work—with a wave of his hand.

I'm too shocked to react. I should run out of here right now, screaming for the guys.

Across from me, nearest to the fire and basking in its glow, my father takes a seat. "Yes, her employee, Eloise, has offered to purchase the clinic," he reveals, accepting a drink from Elijah with a nonchalance that belies the gravity of his words. "Honestly, once we announce the engagement, the value will rise. I suggest waiting until the wedding date is set before selling."

My world tilts a little more with each word they exchange over my head, as if I'm not even here. My future, my dreams, are dissected and discussed like just another transaction.

"Oh, sweetheart," Miss Piggy coos, her voice dripping with a condescension that makes my skin crawl. "It's best just to let your father discuss the negotiations. After all, the men know what we women need best. Isn't that right, Elijah?" Her gaze, filled with an expectation of agreement, finds her son, who's now seated beside me, emanating a confidence that feels unearned.

"Yes, of course," he agrees, turning to me with a smile that disturbs me in ways I can't express. Something just isn't right with him. "My darling Ava, I will expect you to be at my side for all public appearances. You won't have time for work anymore."

"I'd love for her to be on the benefit board with me." Miss Piggy looks to her husband for approval, then claps her hands in delight at the prospect of my inevitable torture.

"Well, that depends, my love, on what Ava has to offer the board," Mr. Castellon interjects, his sharp gaze assessing me like I'm nothing more than a pawn to him.

My father's voice cuts through the tension. "Ava graduated veterinary school a year early as valedictorian. I believe you will find she has plenty to offer you."

Trapped in this gilded cage, my voice fails me. I'm screaming on the inside, plotting my escape from this nightmare, where my accomplishments, my desires, and my autonomy are being bartered away before my very eyes.

"Well, that is yet to be seen," the other man says dismissively, igniting a new wave of anxiety within me. "We still have to address the most recent rumors."

Rumors?

"Father, is now really the time for this?" Elijah reaches for my hand, which I don't give him, but he doesn't care, gripping my hand as though it belongs to him. It doesn't."Let Ava and I spend the evening together before we dive into the heresy."

"Now is absolutely the time for this." His father puffs away at his cigar. "I'd want to know if my future wife has been sullied by a wolf." Shock ripples through me as the man leans toward me. "Did you let them fuck you in beast form?"

The audacity of these people, questioning my personal life and insinuating things about me with no shred of decency—it's too much. "What the fuck?" I blurt out, the outrage I've been bottling up finally spilling over.

"Darling, just answer the question." Elijah's grip tightens, a silent warning as his father leans in, his question so vile, it sends shockwaves through me. My mind races for a way out, but in this moment, surrounded by judgment and expectation, I can't come up with anything. "Did you let them fuck you?"This time, I smell the rot on his breath, and I lean back, trying to get as far from him as I can.

"How is that any of your business?" I snap out, finally finding my voice.

"Darling, just answer the question," Elijah presses, his voice eerily calm amidst the storm. His claim over my personal history, over my body, chills me to the bone. "Did you" —his eyes burn through me— "let them fuck you?"

Cornered, with every instinct screaming at me to flee, I whisper, "No."

Not yet.

As my mind races for an escape, the realization that I'm in deeper waters than I ever imagined becomes painfully clear. My safety, my freedom, hangs in the balance, and my next move could very well determine my fate. This was a mistake.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Elijah's attempt at smoothing things over doesn't fool me. He looks to his father for some sort of approval, but all he gets is a grunt. My heart's doing this crazy drum solo in my chest as I glance around the room.

My dad's gaze nails me to the spot. He has this smile on his face that sends a chill down my spine. "Ava isn't quite ready to know all of our secrets," he says, but his eyes are on me, like he's dropping a hint about a test I haven't studied for. "One day, perhaps, but that's something she will need to earn. Don't you agree, Elijah?"

"Of course," Elijah replies, his grip on my hand tightening. It's like he's trying to communicate his own set of rules through that iron clasp. "I have no doubt she will learn her place in time." He turns his expectant eyes on me, like I'm a puzzle he's solved. "Won't you, darling?"

The way he says darling makes my skin crawl. I'm trapped in a scene I don't want to be part of, with my exit options stripped away.

Refusing to play along, I glare back at Elijah, letting my silence speak volumes.

"Would you all excuse us? I believe it's time I teach my future bride her place," Elijah says, chilling me to the core with the coldness in his voice. My entire body tenses up, and alarm bells ring loud and clear in my head.

"That's my boy," Mr. Castellon says proudly, getting to his feet. "I believe dinner is almost served." He reaches for his wife's hand. "It only took my beloved Marjorie a month to break. Didn't it, sweetheart?"

Excuse me?

Miss Piggy smiles lovingly at her husband. It's a crazy smirk telling me she isn't sane. "Oh, darling, I gave in much earlier, but I enjoyed the punishment."

My father chuckles. "Let's give them some space." I watch in horror as the three of them stand and leave the room, shutting the door behind them with a finality that sends my blood pressure through the roof.

"Ava, you haven't touched your drink," Elijah notes, an order veiled as concern.

"I don't drink," I whisper, defiance fueling my voice, despite the fear. His warning hangs in the air, a threat masked as advice.

"You're going to want to," he warns a moment before he strikes me.