Chapter 7

Ava's POV:

Three days.

I've been counting the days in the servant's room.

The ceiling is still leaking. I put a plastic basin under it to catch the water. The drops hit the bottom of the basin, one after another, like a countdown.

The urn sits next to my pillow, wrapped in old clothes. The first thing I do every morning is feel for it to make sure it's still there.

Mason, just wait a little longer.

Soon.

John hasn't come looking for me again.

Joanna occasionally walks past the servant's room door on purpose, her high heels clicking loudly, but I've locked the door so she can't get in.

On the fourth afternoon, my phone rang.

It was John.

I stared at his name flashing on the screen and answered.

"Where are you?" His voice sounded urgent, with noisy background sounds.

"Home."

"Go to the study. There's a black folder in the left drawer. Bring it to The Apex Residence, third floor. Now."

He hung up.

I held the phone and sat for a while before standing up. I changed into clean clothes, pushed the urn further into the pillow, opened the door and left.

The Apex Residence was a place John frequented. I'd been his secretary for three years and had delivered documents there countless times for him.

Sometimes contracts, sometimes checks, sometimes envelopes containing who knows what.

I took a cab there. When I pushed open the door to the private room on the third floor, the smoke inside nearly choked me.

The room was large with dim lighting.

John sat on the sofa. Across from him was a man in his forties with a buzz cut, a section of blue-green tattoo showing on his neck.

Four or five bodyguards in black stood behind the man, hands in their pockets.

Gang members.

I recognized them. Not all of John's business was above board.

When John's grandfather was alive, he kept tight control and wouldn't let him touch that gray-area stuff.

Now that his grandfather was gone, John didn't hold back as much.

"Come here." John beckoned to me.

I walked over and handed him the folder.

He didn't take it.

The buzz-cut man's gaze had been stuck on me since I entered, looking from my face to my legs, then from my legs back to my face.

I knew that kind of look well—like sizing up merchandise.

"Mr. Williams, who's this?"

"My secretary." John took the folder and placed it on the coffee table.

"Secretary?" The buzz-cut man laughed, showing yellowed teeth. "What about that actress you brought last time? What was her name, Joanna? Why'd you switch?"

John didn't respond.

The buzz-cut man stood up and walked over to me.

He was half a head taller than me. The smell of smoke and alcohol on him made me step back.

"This one's got more flavor than that one." He reached out and grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. "Mr. Williams, about that shipment payment last time—I won't beat around the bush. You can keep the money. Give me Joanna for a couple days and we'll call it even."

John picked up his glass and took a sip. "She's pregnant."

"Pregnant makes it more interesting." The buzz-cut man released my chin and turned to look at him. "What, can't bear to part with her?"

John said nothing.

The room went quiet for a few seconds.

John put down his glass, leaned back into the sofa, and crossed his legs.

"That one won't work." He lifted his chin and gestured in my direction. "This one can."

My fingers suddenly clenched tight.

The buzz-cut man turned around and looked at me again.

This time he looked more carefully, his gaze slowly moving down from my face, pausing at my neckline, then continuing downward.

"That works too." He smiled. "A bit skinny, but they're all the same with the lights off."

The bodyguards behind him laughed along.

I stood there, looking at John.

He looked back at me.

In that moment when our eyes met, I saw nothing in his eyes.

No guilt, no hesitation, not even the satisfaction of revenge.

Nothing at all.

Like he was looking at something that had nothing to do with him.

"What are you still standing there for?" John said. "Get out."

I turned and walked out of the room.

Before the door closed behind me, I heard the buzz-cut man's voice: "Mr. Williams is generous, so this debt between us..."

The door closed.

The hallway was very quiet. The carpet was thick—no sound when you stepped on it.

I leaned against the wall for a while, then slowly crouched down.

My lower abdomen started hurting again.

This time it was more severe than ever before, like something was tearing inside.

I pressed my hand to my stomach. Cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

After the abortion, I hadn't rested for even a day. My body finally couldn't take it anymore. A warm liquid flowed down the inside of my thighs.

Blood.

Deep red blood, soaking through my pants, running down my calves, dripping onto the hotel hallway's beige carpet.

I steadied myself against the wall and stood up, walking toward the elevator step by step.

With each step, I left a blood print on the floor.

The elevator doors opened.

A couple stood inside. When they saw me, the smiles froze on their faces.

The woman shrank behind the man. The man shielded her, looking at me like I was crazy.

I walked in and pressed the button for the first floor.

The elevator was very quiet, only the sound of blood dripping on the floor.

The first floor arrived. I walked out.

People in the lobby moved aside one after another, like avoiding something unclean.

The receptionist recognized me. Her eyes went wide, her lips moved, wanting to call out to me.

I didn't look back. I kept walking to the street and called 911.

While waiting for the ambulance, blood kept flowing, staining the marble of the flower bed dark.

The sunlight was bright.

As bright as the day I first met John.

The ambulance arrived.

Someone lifted me onto a stretcher. Someone took my blood pressure.

The operating room lights were very bright.

So bright I could still feel that ball of white light even with my eyes closed.

I don't know how long passed.

When I woke up again, I heard someone on the phone.

It was from the direction of the nurses' station. A nurse was saying something in a low voice.

"...Did you contact her family?"

"Yes. A man answered. Should be her husband."

"What did he say?"

"He said..." The nurse paused, her voice dropping even lower, as if afraid someone might hear. "He said even if she dies it has nothing to do with him. Don't bother him again."

"Who died?"

A woman's voice came from the other end of the phone, through the receiver and the hospital room wall.

It was Joanna.

Before the nurse could answer, John's voice came through in the background, flat and impatient.

"Ava. Even if she dies it has nothing to do with me."

The phone hung up. The hallway went completely quiet.

I lay in the hospital bed, eyes open, staring straight at the ceiling.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, very similar to the one in the servant's room.

Yellowed edges, slowly spreading, like a withered flower.

My lower abdomen still hurt, but the pain seemed far away, like it was coming from someone else's body.

I slowly placed my hand on my stomach. My consciousness sank bit by bit.

In a daze, I seemed to hear Mason's voice, coming from far away.

"Ava, take me far away from here."

Soon. I'm coming.

Ava will leave with you now.

Complete darkness.