Chapter 8

Rowan locked Ava in a guest room on the third floor. Near dusk, the door opened and Lia walked in, a dark blue men's handkerchief pinched delicately between her fingers. "Ava," she said with a bright, sugary smile, "you dropped this at the hospital when you tried to run." Ava lifted her eyes, cold and expressionless. The handkerchief was utterly unfamiliar, yet the sight of it stirred an absurd chill in her chest. Lia's tricks were clumsy, almost childish, but Ava knew that in certain people's minds, this was more than enough to condemn her. Lia set the handkerchief neatly on the bedside table. Her voice softened into feigned innocence. "What do you think will happen when Rowan sees that you're carrying around something from another man?" Before the words had even faded, the door swung open with a jolt. Rowan strode in, his gaze landing on the deep blue cloth. "What is that?" His voice carried no trace of warmth, only a cold, surgical sharpness. His eyes were locked on the handkerchief. Lia instantly shifted to a look of panic. "Rowan, I just came to bring Ava her meal, and then I saw that…" Rowan snatched up the handkerchief, gripping it so tightly his knuckles went white. "Ava, you disappoint me beyond words. I gave you so many chances. And this is how you repay me?" Then, he turned to one of his men. "Benjamin. Bring me the whip." Rage boiled beneath his eyes, leaving Ava no chance to speak. Soon, a long black whip was brought out. Two bodyguards dragged Ava into the courtyard and forced her over a long wooden bench. "A hundred lashes," Rowan said beneath the shadow of the veranda, his face unseen. "Learn what it means to behave." The first strike split her skin. The shock tore through her, a violent tremor running down her spine. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. In a haze, she remembered how once, in the glass conservatory he built for her, she pricked her finger on a rose thorn. He panicked, immediately calling the family doctor. That tenderness was now a cruelty so sharp it seemed farcical. The second last. The third. Each blow came with a whistle of air, shattering what remained of her past illusions. Old wounds tore open beneath the strikes. Blood seeped through her thin clothes, and her consciousness wavered in the sea of pain. She dug her nails into her palms, using sharper pain to keep herself awake. She did not know how long it lasted. When it finally ended, Ava was dragged back to her room like a broken doll. She curled into herself on the darkened floor. A fever ravaged her. In her dazed state, she saw flickers of Rowan from years ago. The man who poured wine over a socialite for disrespecting her, the man who shielded her from paparazzi, the man who once held her hand as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Now these memories cut her apart, blade by blade. She lost track of the days. The door opened at last. A document dropped to the floor beside her. Ava crawled toward it, her movements slow and agonized. In the dim light from the window, she saw the words. It was divorce certificate. Inside was a single note, the handwriting bold and unmistakable. "Find a way out of the Sinclairs. I'll come to you." Ava touched the cold paper with trembling fingers. Then, she let out a quiet laugh. The laugh grew until it shook her weakened frame, and tears slipped silently down her cheeks. However, it wasn't grief. It was a relief. She was finally, absolutely free. Summoning every ounce of strength, she pushed herself upright, braced against the wall, and inched toward the door. She knocked, and the bodyguard opened it. Rowan stood outside, as if he had been waiting. "Rowan," Ava said, lifting a face pale to the point of translucence, "Send someone to take me to the hospital. I'm ready to get rid of this child now."