Chapter 4 - The Salt in the Wound
I didn't sign the contract that night.
Pride is a ridiculous, stubborn thing. When you have spent your entire life being stepped on, sometimes the only thing keeping your spine straight is the illusion that you still own your choices.
"I need twenty-four hours," I had told Gabriel in the back of that car.
He hadn't argued. He hadn't pressured me. He simply smiled—a knowing, chilling smirk that suggested he already knew the outcome before the dice were even cast—and had his driver drop me off at the curb of my crumbling brownstone apartment in Crown Heights.
Now, at eight o’clock the following morning, reality arrived with a battering ram.
I stood outside my front door, staring at the bright red notice pasted over the deadbolt.
*EVICTION PROCEEDING: IMMEDIATE VACATE ORDER FOR NON-COMPLIANCE AND LEASE TERMINATION.*
Beside me, my landlady, Mrs. Gable, was standing with her arms folded over her floral housecoat, refusing to look me in the eye. Two burly men in work boots were already hauling my battered cardboard boxes down the narrow stairwell.
"Mrs. Gable, what is this?" I demanded, my hands shaking as I held the paper. "My rent is paid through the end of the month! I’ve lived here for three years!"
"The building was bought out this morning, Ava," she said, her voice strained, reeking of nicotine and guilt. "New management company took over at midnight. Cash purchase. They’re renovating the whole floor. All leases terminated immediately under the structural hazard clause."
"What management company?"
"Langford Urban Developments," she muttered, finally looking at the floor. "They paid out my equity, child. I didn't have a choice. They said if you had a problem with it, you could contact their legal counsel—someone named Damian Cross."
The blood rushed into my ears with the roar of a freight train.
Damian.
He had wasted no time. Stripped of his bond deal, he was using Victoria’s family muscle to execute a petty, vicious scorched-earth campaign against me. He wanted to remind me what I was: a girl in a cheap apartment with no safety net, no resources, and no power.
My phone chimed in my coat pocket.
It was an unknown number, but the text was unmistakable.
*Did you think a parlor trick with Gabriel Thorne was going to save you, Ava?* the message read. *He was playing a game with Marcus Thorne’s board. He’s already forgotten your name. By five o’clock today, you won’t have a reference in this city, an apartment, or a dollar to pay for your grandmother’s ward. Come to my office at noon. Apologize to Victoria on your knees, and maybe I’ll find you a job cleaning the bathrooms at my firm.*
A tear of pure, white-hot rage slid down my cheek.
I looked at the sidewalk below. My entire life—the cracked plastic laundry hamper, the books I had saved from college, the winter coat I had worn until the cuffs were frayed—was piled on the wet curb like garbage. Passersby walked past, stepping around my memories without a second glance.
Six years of sacrifice. Six years of skipping meals so Damian could have textbooks. Six years of telling myself that kindness and hard work eventually yielded peace.
It was a lie. In this world, weakness wasn't met with mercy; it was met with a boot to the throat.
I pulled my phone back out, bypassed Damian's message entirely, and dialed the single private number stored in the notes app—the number Gabriel’s driver had handed me on a heavy, embossed black card.
It didn't even ring twice.
"Ava," Gabriel’s deep voice answered, completely devoid of surprise.
"Where are you?" I asked, my voice deadly level, the tremors finally gone.
"Thorne Tower. Penthouse suite," he replied smoothly. "Shall I send the car?"
May you like
"No," I said, wiping the tear from my face with the back of my hand, feeling my soul harden into something sharp, cold, and lethal. "I’ll take the subway. Have the pen ready."
***