"Someone trying to keep you alive." Isabella shoved the robe into Ave's hands. "Now are you going to stand there dripping Pinot Noir, or are you going to trust me for five goddamn minutes?"
Ave's heart was hammering. Every instinct screamed at her to run or scream. To do something.
But Leo was waiting outside. Denise was monitoring her credit card. She was trapped in a ballroom full of people who either pitied or despised her, wearing a ruined dress, with nowhere to go.
And this strange, chaotic woman had just looked her in the eye and said: Someone trying to keep you alive.
Ave took the robe.
Isabella exhaled. "Thank Christ. Okay, get changed quickly."
Ave turned her back, ridiculous, maintaining modesty when nothing about this made sense and unzipped her dress. The fabric peeled away, sticky with wine. She shrugged into the robe, tied it closed.
When she turned around, Isabella was leaning against the sink. Not smiling anymore.
Just watching her with eyes that had seen too much and survived anyway.
"The Kingship Contract," Isabella said quietly. "Do you know what it is?"
Ave's throat went dry. "A... business deal. Between Denise and.... "
"It's not a business deal, Ave. It's a succession war."
The words landed like physical blows.
"What?"
"Your husband….. Denise, Alexander, all of them.....they're not just wealthy. They're connected. Like old families, old money and old power." Isabella's jaw tightened.
"And when the current king dies, someone has to take his place. That's what the contract is. A competition and a game."
Ave's legs felt weak. She gripped the edge of the sink.
"That's... that's insane"
"Is it?" Isabella moved closer. "Think about it. The armed men. The secrecy. The way everyone treats you like you're either precious cargo or a liability." Her voice dropped. "You're not Denise's wife, honey. You're his bid. His entry fee. The prize he's offering to prove he deserves the throne."
"I don't believe you," Ave whispered. But even as she said it, pieces were clicking together. The guards. The locked doors. Samantha's cold contempt. The way Denise looked at her sometimes, not like a husband, but like a man checking inventory.
Isabella's expression softened. Just slightly. "I know this is a lot. I know you're scared. But you need to understand what you're in the middle of, because it's the only way you're getting out."
"Out?"
"Your ticket out is in Denise's safe."
Ave's breath caught. "What?"
"Whatever you need….passport, money, documents, he's keeping it locked up. Probably has been since he brought you home." Isabella straightened.
"But I know the combination."
"How could you possibly..."
"Because I've been where you are. Different face, different name, but same fucking cage." Something raw flickered across Isabella's features. "The combination is your miscarriage date."
She stilled. Ave's miscarriage, six months ago, the baby she'd lost at eight weeks. The grief that had nearly swallowed her whole while Denise held her hand and made all the right sympathetic noises and then, a week later, asked when she thought she'd be ready to try again.
He'd used that date. That date. As a fucking password.
"Oh my God," she breathed.
"I know." Isabella's voice was gentle now. Almost kind.
"Men like Denise…..they don't waste anything. Not even tragedy."
Ave pressed her hand to her mouth. She was going to be sick. She was going to—
"Hey." Isabella gripped her shoulders.
"Stay with me. You can fall apart later. Right now, I need you to go back out there, smile, and act like nothing happened. Can you do that?"
Could she?
Her dress was ruined. Her husband was a monster. And to topple it all , her entire life was a lie.
But her mother had trained her for this, hadn't she? Not the specifics. Not this exact nightmare, but the principle.
"Yes," Ave said. Her voice didn't shake. "I can do that."
"Good." Isabella released her, stepped back. Started unlocking the door. "I'll make a scene. Blame you for bumping into me. You apologize, play the flustered housewife, and get the hell out of here."
"Wait—"
Isabella paused and looked back.
"Why are you helping me?" Ave asked.
For a moment, something vulnerable crossed Isabella's face. Then like a flash, it was gone.
"Because no one helped me," she said simply. "And I got out anyway. But you—" She shook her head. "You still have a chance to do it clean. Before they destroy you completely."
The door swung open.
Isabella's face transformed, back to the dizzy socialite, the party girl, the walking disaster….and she grabbed Ave's wine-stained dress.
"—and that's why you don't wear suede to a wine tasting!" she announced to no one in particular, voice carrying down the hallway.
"God, Ave, you are such a klutz."
"I'm sorry," Ave said automatically, falling back into her role. "I should have been more careful—"
"Yeah, well." Isabella thrust the stained dress at her. "Maybe next time watch where you're going."
She stormed off, heels clicking against marble, leaving Ave standing in the hallway in a spa robe with a ruined dress in her hands.
People were staring. Of course they were staring. Ave lifted her chin and straightened her spine.
And walked back toward the ballroom with her head high and her hands steady, even though everything inside her was screaming.
Because Isabella was right about one thing.
She could fall apart later.
---
Leo said nothing when she climbed into the car twenty minutes later.
He'd retrieved her coat from the valet. How he'd known she was leaving early, she didn't want to think about, and now he drove in silence while Ave sat in the backseat in her ruined dress and her borrowed coat, staring at nothing.
The miscarriage date.
She'd been so broken after it happened. So lost. Denise had been perfect, attentive, supportive, everything a grieving husband should be. He'd brought her tea. Held her while she cried. Told her they'd try again when she was ready.
And the entire time, he'd been filing that date away like a receipt. A piece of data. Something useful. Ave's hands were shaking again.
She pressed them against her thighs, hard enough to hurt.
"What are you going to do?" She asked herself.
She didn't know. All her resources, gone. If Isabella was telling the truth, if there really was something in there—
"Mrs. Whitmore."
Leo's voice made her jump.
He was watching her in the rearview mirror. His expression was neutral and professional.
But his eyes... his eyes weren't empty anymore.
They were knowing.
"Yes?" Ave's voice came out hoarse.
Leo was quiet for a long moment. The city slid past. Traffic. People. Normal life.
Then: "You should rest when we get home. You look tired."
"I see you thinking. I see you planning. Don't."
Ave swallowed. Nodded.
"Of course," she whispered.
Leo turned his attention back to the road.
And Ave sat very still in the backseat, her heart pounding against her ribs, her mind spinning with impossible information, while somewhere in her husband's house, a safe waited.
Locked with the date of her dead child.