The Burned Wife Reborn For Spectacular Revenge

The heavy thud of the front doors echoed through the foyer.

Jocelyn closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms tightly around Ava. The familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 filled Ava's lungs. The smell hit a nerve deep in her chest. A sharp ache radiated behind her sternum.

Jocelyn rubbed Ava's back. "What happened to you? You are scaring me."

Ava buried her face in her mother's shoulder. She forced her breathing to hitch. She let the lingering adrenaline push hot tears into her eyes. She needed an excuse.

"I had a nightmare," Ava sobbed against the cashmere fabric. "When I was drowning in the fever. I saw Warren taking everything. I saw us on the street. I saw you..." She let her voice break. "I can't be weak anymore. I won't let them hurt you."

Jocelyn's grip tightened fiercely. The maternal instinct overrode the shock. She kissed the top of Ava's head. "I won't let them touch us. I promise."

Ava pulled back. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Call Dad's old board members. The ones Warren sidelined. Tell them we are holding our ground."

Jocelyn nodded, her expression hardening. She turned and walked quickly down the hall toward the study.

Ava stood alone. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. She walked down the sweeping staircase and pushed open the glass doors to the sunroom.

The room was bright. In the center sat a black Steinway grand piano. The polished wood reflected the golden evening light.

Ava walked up to the bench. She did not sit down. She held her hands out in front of her face. She stared at her wrists. She flipped her hands over, looking at the pale skin over her veins. She remembered the blinding pain of Demarco's knife slicing through her tendons in the final months of her past life.

She flexed her fingers. The joints moved smoothly. The muscles contracted without agony.

She sat down on the leather bench. She lifted the fallboard. She rested her fingertips lightly against the cool ivory keys. Her muscles, still weakened by the massive fever, trembled slightly. The physical toll of her illness was undeniable, but her mind was a roaring inferno. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity.

Her hands crashed down on the keyboard.

She played Chopin's Nocturne in C minor, but she stripped away all the elegance. At first, her fingers fumbled slightly, stiff and uncoordinated, but as the fury took over, the music morphed. She hammered the keys. The tempo was frantic, aggressive, and violent. The heavy bass notes shook the floorboards. She poured the memory of the fire, the chemical burns, and the betrayal into her fingers.

Outside the glass doors, two maids stopped in the hallway. They stared through the glass, their mouths slightly open, shocked by the sheer auditory violence coming from the usually quiet girl.

By the time she reached the crescendo, her arms felt like lead. Her weak body was pushed to its absolute limit. She slammed her hands down on the final chord. She held the pedal down, letting the dissonant sound ring out until it faded into silence.

She instantly slumped forward, gasping heavily for breath. Her lungs burned for oxygen, and cold sweat dripped from her forehead.

She opened her eyes. She looked at her trembling hands again. Playing the piano was not enough. Having a sharp mind was not enough. She needed physical power. She needed to know how to break a bone, how to disarm a man, how to survive.

She stood up and closed the piano lid.

"Dinner is served, Miss."

Ava turned. Sam Jones stood in the doorway. He wore his standard black suit, but Ava noticed the way he stood. His weight was perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers slightly curled. It was the stance of a man ready to draw a weapon.

Ava looked at him. "Thank you, Sam."

She adjusted her shawl and walked past him toward the dining room.