My Ex-Husband's Fatal Ignorance

Ellie Armstrong POV:

My life was a greasy, oil-stained blur, a stark contrast to the polished marble and hushed whispers of my past. Carter had called it a tantrum, this brutal, beautiful existence I' d carved out of the wreckage. He probably called it an insult to my Juilliard training, a disgrace to the concert halls I' d once graced. But this? This dirt, this sweat, this endless physical grind-this was real. This was mine.

I squirmed out from under the truck, my back protesting, a dull ache throbbing in my knees. The grease on my face was caked on now, forming a gritty mask.

My phone, still in my pocket, vibrated again, a persistent buzz against my hip. I pulled it out, annoyed. Why couldn't they just leave me alone?

The screen flashed with a familiar name: Ava. My best friend, my rock through the darkest years. I answered, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Ellie! Thank God you picked up!" Ava's voice was a frantic whisper, laced with panic. "He's looking for you. Carter. He's furious you blocked him."

I said nothing, leaning against the cold metal of the truck.

"He knows where you work, El. He sent his people. They nearly tore my entire studio apart looking for you. He' s going to find you," she gasped, her voice trembling. "He said he' d burn this city to the ground if he had to."

I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen for a moment. My fingernails were black with engine grease, tiny crescent moons of dirt carved into the quick. I brought the phone back.

"Let him," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He won't find anything worth burning."

"Ellie, don't be like this!" Ava cried, her voice rising, cracking with fear. "You know what he's capable of. Remember what he did-"

"I remember everything, Ava," I cut her off, my voice cold as ice. The words caught in my throat, a bitter lump. My gaze fell to my right hand, still resting on the truck' s fender. The ugly scar on the web of my thumb spread, a jagged lightning bolt across the back of my hand. My index and middle fingers were stiff, permanently bent at odd angles, the knuckles swollen and deformed. The tips of my fingers were flattened, calloused from years of gripping wrenches, not caressing piano keys.

Who would ever believe this hand once danced across ivory, conjuring magic? Who would believe it once shone under Carnegie Hall's lights? That girl was dead. I was an auto mechanic now. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"A cornered dog bites hardest, Ava," I said, the old proverb a chilling whisper. "Let him come."

I hung up before she could reply. I had to get back to work.

But the phone rang again immediately. A text this time. From an unknown number.

"You will assist Alexandrea Bruce at the charity gala next Saturday. 8 PM. The Hopkins Estate. Be there."

Another text followed, almost instantly. "Consider this an opportunity, Ellie. Don't make us regret offering it."

Alexandrea Bruce. The name was a venomous whisper in my memory. My damaged right hand throbbed with a phantom ache, a ghost of the agony I' d felt five years ago. Alexandrea, his mistress, the woman he' d left Lily and me for. The woman who had orchestrated it all. She was the one he was marrying now. The thought brought a wave of nausea.

I deleted the texts without a second thought, the numbers blocked. There was no way I was going back to that gilded cage, to face the woman who had stolen my life and caused the death of my daughter.

I pushed the phone back into my pocket, the screen cold against my leg. Colt was still yelling about the Civic. I wiped my hands on a grimy rag and walked toward him, the smell of oil and gasoline a familiar comfort.