Chapter 5 - Rory’s ConfessionGraham Mercer vanished.
So did Ivy.
Daryl Wilson returned to his penthouse and released a statement before sunset claiming the wedding had been “interrupted by criminal intimidation.” By midnight, my face was everywhere.
Runaway bride.
Mafia mistress.
Greedy daughter.
Unstable heiress.
The internet chose a story before I had even found my shoes.
I sat beside my mother’s hospital bed in one of Vittorio’s spare shirts, watching strangers turn my life into entertainment.
My mother slept through most of it.
Thank God.
Serena handled the hospital.
Vittorio handled security.
I handled nothing.
That was what frightened me most.
All my life, I had survived by doing. Working double shifts. Paying bills. Counting pills. Bargaining with doctors. Smiling through Ivy’s insults. Pretending my father’s silence did not hurt.
Now everything was moving around me, and I was the girl in the middle of the storm.
At 2:13 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Then a message appeared.
Ava, please. It’s Rory. I need to tell you the truth before they kill me.
I stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Vittorio noticed.
“Who?”
“Rory.”
His expression hardened.
“Do not answer.”
I answered.
Because fear had made too many choices for me already.
Rory’s voice cracked when he heard mine.
“Ava?”
“You have ten seconds.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nine.”
“I didn’t know Daryl was replacing me until last night.”
“Eight.”
“Your father said it was temporary. He said you’d be taken care of. He said your mother would get the surgery.”
“Seven.”
“He paid me.”
That hurt even though I already knew.
“How much?”
Silence.
“How much, Rory?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
Vittorio’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
“My sister owed people money,” Rory whispered. “Bad people. I thought if I married you, signed the papers, and kept quiet, your mom would live and everyone would be safe.”
“You thought selling me was safe?”
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“That is the problem.”
He cried then.
I hated that it still affected me.
Not love.
Not anymore.
But memory.
Rory had once brought soup when my mother was too weak to cook. He had fixed the heater in my apartment. He had kissed my forehead in hospital hallways and promised I would not have to carry everything alone.
He had not been a monster.
That made the betrayal worse.
“Why are you calling?” I asked.
“Because Daryl has something. Papers. Old papers from your mother. He said if he can get them before noon tomorrow, he doesn’t need the wedding.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t know. Birth records. A letter. Something locked in the chapel office.”
My heart jumped.
Vittorio moved closer.
“Where are you?”
Rory heard his voice and panicked.
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Ava, listen to me. Don’t trust him either.”
I laughed without humor.
“You lost the right to warn me.”
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
“But Daryl is not done. Your father is desperate, and Ivy is worse. They’re going to paint you as unstable. They’re going to say Cassio kidnapped you. They’re going to make your mother look confused. If they get those records first—”
The line crackled.
“Rory?”
A door slammed on his end.
He whispered, “I have to go.”
“Wait.”
“One more thing. Daryl kept saying the wedding was only the clean way. He said if you wouldn’t sign as a wife, you could sign as a patient.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was going to have you declared mentally incompetent.”
The call ended.
I sat frozen.
Vittorio took the phone from my hand gently and gave it to Serena, who had appeared in the doorway.
“Trace it,” he said.
“I’m not your employee,” Serena replied.
“No. You are her attorney.”
Serena looked at me.
I nodded.
She took the phone.
The hospital room felt suddenly unsafe.
My sleeping mother looked fragile under the blankets. Machines breathed around her. Snow tapped lightly against the window.
I turned to Vittorio.
“I need those papers.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Ava.”
I stood.
The shirt fell to my knees. My hair was still pinned in half a bridal style, half a disaster. I probably looked ridiculous.
But I had never felt clearer.
“You said my father left proof.”
“Yes.”
“My mother said you know where it is.”
“I know where it might be.”
“The chapel.”
“It is too dangerous.”
“My entire life has been dangerous. I just didn’t know who was holding the knife.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “You do not have to prove bravery by walking into traps.”
“No,” I said. “But I do have to prove I am not property.”
That did it.
Something in his face shifted.
Respect.
Not softness.
Something better.
“Then we go with a plan,” he said.
“We?”
His eyes did not leave mine.
“You saved me once on a train when every decent person looked away. Let me return the favor properly.”
Before I could answer, Serena came back.
“Rory is at a motel in Queens,” she said. “But that is not the important part.”
“What is?”
She held up my phone.
“He sent a photo before the call dropped.”
The image showed a safe.
Brass handle.
Chapel office wall.
And above it, scratched into the wood, were three words:
ROSE KNOWS CHRISTMAS.
My mother’s middle name was Rose.
So was mine.
Vittorio looked at the photo.
Then at me.
“You know the code?”
I did.
Not because anyone had told me.
Because every Christmas when I was little, my mother made me whisper the same six numbers before opening the first gift.
“122525,” I said.
May you like
December 25th.
My birthday.
Related Stories
