Ava Carter was a contradiction in heels.
She was the woman little girls dreamed of becoming and men were too afraid to chase. Her schedule was chaos, her bank account wasn't, and her lipstick never smudged. At meetings, they listened. At parties, they watched. In every room she walked into, the air changed.
"I was the mom kids dreamed of — rich, running my own empire, heels higher than their standards. Sweet when I wanted to be, dangerous when I had to be.
Yeah, I was a single mom.
But don't get it twisted — my kid never lacked a damn thing.
Not love. Not money. Not power.
I wasn't missing a man.
He was missing me."
And every word of that was true.
Except when it wasn't.
When Adrien was around, the mask softened. She giggled too loud. Hugged too tight. Clung like he might slip through her fingers if she blinked too long. It wasn't fake — it was her realest truth. That boy was the only reason she'd survived the fire.
But even he didn't know how much of her still lived in fear.
The text came just after midnight.
Alex: We should talk. Tomorrow. Usual place.
No emojis. No greetings. No question mark. Just cold control — the kind that turned her stomach.
Ava didn't breathe for a long second.
The screen blurred as her vision doubled. Her fingers hovered over the reply button, not to type — just to make it go away. But she couldn't bring herself to press it.
She stood in the dark kitchen, the floor still faintly shining where her blood had dried yesterday. Her wrist still hurt from where she'd cut it on the vase. And her heart? Her heart felt like it was beating out a countdown.
He was here. Again.
And worse — he'd been watching.
She didn't know how often. She didn't know from where. But she'd caught it in her rearview mirror more than once — the black car that turned when she turned. The one she could never quite get a license plate on.
She never told Adrien. How could she?
He didn't know Alex had never really left.
She pressed her back against the fridge and tried to remember how to breathe. How to not feel like sixteen again — bruised, pregnant, and begging someone to just be kind.
The next morning, Ava Carter was unshakable.
The robe was gone. In its place: a tailored ivory blazer, cream heels sharp enough to kill, and a blood-red lipstick that made men forget how to breathe. She curled her hair to perfection and lined her eyes like war paint.
"God, look at me," she muttered in the mirror. "I look like I charge for air."
Adrien leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "You look like you're going to a boardroom to eat someone alive."
"I might," she said with a wink. "I might even order champagne with it."
"You sure you're okay?"
"Please," she scoffed, grabbing her purse. "I'm Ava Carter. I'm what happens when hell can't hold me."
And for a while, that was true.
She made Adrien breakfast like it was any other day. She teased him about his hair, kissed his cheek before leaving, and even hummed an old Billie Holiday tune as she drove.
But her fingers tapped against the steering wheel too fast.
And her heartbeat? It didn't match the music.
---
The café hadn't changed.
Same peeling navy awning. Same crooked "OPEN" sign blinking like it had seen better years.
Ava hadn't been here in over a decade — not since the day she'd run, belly swollen and eyes blackened, clutching a hospital bag in one hand and her future in the other.
She spotted him before he saw her.
Alex.
God.
He looked the same.
That was the worst part.
Time had kissed him gently, the way it never had her. His jaw was still razor-sharp, his smile lazy and cruel. He leaned back in his chair like the world owed him comfort, one arm draped along the booth as if it were a throne.
A cigarette sat unlit between his fingers.
And Ava stopped breathing.
Suddenly, she was sixteen again.
Sixteen and barefoot in his kitchen, flinching at every laugh, watching the smoke coil in the air like a noose.
Sixteen and stupidly in love with a boy who called her names in the same voice he once used to say "I love you."
Sixteen and pregnant and bleeding on the cold floor while he made a sandwich.
Her legs locked in place.
She couldn't walk.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't remember what power felt like.
Her knuckles turned white around her purse strap.
And her heart — her traitorous, trembling heart — whispered, Don't look him in the eyes. That's how he wins.
Alex looked up.
And smiled.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Like seventeen years hadn't passed.
Like he hadn't broken her.
"Still pretty," he said, raising a brow.
Ava's throat tightened.
He stood.
And she stepped back.
Just one inch. Just one.
But she knew he saw it.
He smiled wider.
She didn't speak as he walked over — every step slicing through her like a voice from a nightmare she never wanted to hear again.
Alex.
Ava sat frozen in the café's morning hum, spine straight but stomach twisted. She wore power like perfume — all sleek hair, matte lipstick, and a designer coat worth more than his car — but inside, she was sixteen again. Barefoot. Bleeding. Silent.
He smiled like he still owned her.
"Sit," he said, sliding into the booth.
She didn't move.
"I said sit, Ava."
So she did.
But only to prove she could still do it without falling apart.
"I only have ten minutes," she said coolly.
He looked her up and down. "You look like money. Like someone trying too hard not to look behind her."
She didn't answer.
"But you always had good taste. In heels. In ambition. In… men."
He leaned closer. "Or maybe not in men."
Ava said nothing.
"You know," he went on, "I wasn't sure it was you at first. The press makes you look taller. Colder. You play that CEO angle like you don't bleed anymore. But then I saw you with him."
She froze.
His smile widened.
"Adrien," he said. "Our son."
She clenched her fists under the table.
"I watched the two of you at the museum last month," he continued. "He asked a million questions about ancient Rome. You answered every single one like he was the most brilliant mind alive."
Ava's lips parted, breath caught.
"You were glowing," Alex said, almost mockingly. "Tucking his collar straight. Stroking his hair like he was made of porcelain. You kiss his cheek like it's a reflex. Like it keeps you breathing."
His voice dropped.
"It's pathetic. You act like he's your emotional support animal. Clingy. Obsessive. Overbearing."
She didn't blink.
He leaned back, tilting his head. "And it's not even for him, is it? It's for you. You're not trying to raise a boy — you're trying to heal a girl."
Her chest ached.
"I've seen the way he walks with you," Alex continued. "Hand in hand. Like he's still five. Like he's not trying to grow up, because you won't let him. And the way you talk to him? Cheerful. Clingy. Baby-voiced. You're not parenting him. You're clutching him."
"You don't know anything about how I raise him."
"Oh, I know everything. I watched him every day for the past two weeks. I know what time he takes the bus. I know his locker number. I know what brand of protein bar you pack in his bag. I saw him laugh with that girl outside the library and shut it down the second she touched his shoulder. Why? Because he doesn't trust anyone near you. Doesn't let anyone in."
He leaned forward again, his smile razor-thin.
"You made him codependent, Ava. He's too much yours. That's not strength — that's a prison."
Her voice shook, but it came out steady.
"He's mine because you were never there."
"I gave him his fire."
"You gave him silence."
"I saw him get in a fight two days ago," Alex added quietly. "Two against one. He didn't flinch. Same look I had at his age. Same fists. Same rage. You didn't raise that. You just tried to hide it."
"Don't talk about him."
"He's mine, Ava."
"No." Her voice broke. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to show up and take credit like you earned it."
"He's got my blood. You think that perfume can cover it? You think fairy lights and birthday parties erase me?"
Her throat was closing. Her skin felt ice-cold. The whole café was too bright, too loud, but all she could hear was him — tearing down everything she'd built.
"You're shaking," Alex whispered. "Because deep down, you know I'm right. You think all that sunshine and softness will protect him. But you're just raising him to burn."
The tears were there now, heavy behind her eyes.
Then —
"Get the hell away from my mother."
Ava jerked up.
Adrien.
He was at the door. Hands clenched. Eyes cold. He didn't storm in — he marched. His presence swallowed the room. His fury wasn't loud. It was volcanic.
He stopped right at the booth. Stood like a shield.
"You don't talk to her. You don't watch her. You don't follow her."
Alex arched an eyebrow. "The kid's got bite."
Adrien didn't blink. "Try me."
"I've just been keeping an eye on what's mine."
Adrien laughed — dark and humorless.
"She's not yours. She never was. You walked out the day she broke."
"I gave her you," Alex said.
"No," Adrien snapped. "She gave me herself. Every late-night story, every meal, every laugh, every second. You gave me a DNA test and trauma."
Alex's smirk faded.
Adrien pulled out his phone, holding it up.
"One more word and this goes to your parole officer. All your 'watching' — documented. You park near my school again, and the police will be there before your engine cools."
Ava stood behind him now, shaking — but holding his arm like a lifeline.
"You okay?" he whispered, not taking his eyes off Alex.
She nodded.
And for the first time, the fear loosened.
Because her boy wasn't just brave.
He was hers.
And she had raised him right.
Alex saw it then.
She hadn't raised a son.
She'd raised a storm.
"You've got ten seconds," Adrien said.
Alex stood. But there was no fight in his face now. Only retreat.
"See you around, Ava."
But she didn't look back.
She turned away — heels clicking on tile, hand still gripping her son's sleeve — and walked out of the café.
And this time, she wasn't running.
She was rising.
Her heels didn't feel like armor.
They felt like thunder.