Ava quietly slipped out of the master bedroom, her bare feet silently treading on the thick Persian carpet in the hallway. She pushed open Leo's door, which was already ajar.

Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, illuminating the Lego castle and the storybooks scattered throughout.

He was still asleep, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically. A strand of black hair, just like Julian's, fell across his forehead.

She sat by his bedside, her eyes softening for the first time since she woke up. In this cold, broken world, only this warm little body offered her a sliver of comfort. She leaned down and gently kissed his forehead.

Leo slowly opened his eyes, blinked, and his gaze fell on her face. Then, a bright smile bloomed on his face.

Ava returned the smile with a genuine one that reached her eyes. She raised her hand, making a "good morning" gesture with her fingers.

Leo learned sign language before he could speak, and he imitated the gesture with his clumsy little hands.

The door opened wider, and Mrs. Helen, the housekeeper, came in carrying a glass of warm milk. When she looked at Ava, a familiar pity flashed in her kind eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carlisle," she said softly. "You should get ready. Your car to the arts center will be here soon..."

Ava nodded, her smile fading. She helped Leo up, helped him sit up, and then guided him to put on the custom-made blazer, part of his school uniform.

Heavy, steady footsteps echoed down the corridor. Julian appeared in the doorway, dressed in a custom-made Tom Ford suit, exuding the aura of a powerful corporate figure. He was adjusting his tie, his expression remaining cold and inscrutable.

He glanced at Ava, his gaze sweeping over her as if she were part of the furniture, before settling on his son.

"Daddy!" Leo jumped off the bed, lunged at Julian's legs, and hugged them tightly.

In that instant, Julian's rugged features softened. He leaned down and ruffled Leo's hair. It was the only crack she had ever seen on his armor.

But his gaze swept over her, lingering for a fleeting moment on the faint bruise on the side of her neck. Just a moment. Then he looked away, as if he hadn't seen anything.

He didn't say a word to her. He straightened his tie, turned, and walked toward the private elevator that would take him to the underground parking garage and then to Wall Street.

The elevator doors slid shut softly, making a slight hissing sound. The tension in Ava's shoulders eased a little.

Mrs. Helen sighed, letting out a soft, sorrowful sound, and then handed Ava a cup of black coffee.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Helen frowned and walked to the intercom by the door. After a moment, she pressed the button and opened the door.

A young woman walked in, her eyes sharp and intelligent, wearing an impeccably tailored dress. She carried a leather briefcase and wore a professional yet genuine smile.

"Good morning," she said in a clear and confident voice. "I'm Janice Burt, the new tutor."

Her gaze swept quickly, almost imperceptibly, across the penthouse apartment, lingering for a fleeting moment on the Jean-Michel Basquiat painting in the foyer. It was a sharp observation, quickly concealed by her.

She turned to Ava, extending a meticulously manicured hand. "You must be Mrs. Carlyle. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Ava did not take her hand, but simply nodded politely and distantly.

Janice's face showed a flash of surprise, followed by annoyance, before she resumed her usual professional smile.

"Madam has a sore throat today," Mrs. Helen explained, breaking the awkward silence. "She's not much of a talker."

"Oh, of course, I understand," Janice said, a new glint in her eyes—not understanding, but judgment. A hint of contempt. She had clearly categorized Ava as not only taciturn but also weak and incompetent.

The curve of her smile changed, becoming thinner and sharper. Ava had seen this expression before—the same curve on the lips of bankers when they learned her father was desperate.

Janice bypassed Ava completely and crouched down to be at Leo's eye level. "You must be Leo! I've heard so much about you." Her tone was cloyingly sweet.

Leo sensed the change in the atmosphere in the room, shrank back, pressed himself tightly against Ava's legs, and grabbed her skirt.

Janice wasn't discouraged. She opened her briefcase and took out a beautiful pop-up dinosaur book. "I brought you something."

Ava watched her meticulously prepared performance, a wave of nausea washing over her, a chill running down her spine. This woman was more than just a tutor; the position she had applied for was currently vacant. At least not yet.

Ava took out her phone, quickly typed a message, and held it up for Mrs. Helen to see. Mrs. Helen leaned closer to read it, her expression changing slightly, then she shook her head. She whispered in Ava's ear, "She submitted her resume herself, sending it directly to the old lady. Mr. Carlyle knew nothing about it." Mrs. Helen paused, her gaze sweeping over Janice, her voice even lower, "Or rather, he pretended not to know."

Ava picked up her handbag from the side table, nodded to Mrs. Helen, and then turned to walk towards the elevator, leaving her son to a stranger with a calculating look in his eyes.

Before the elevator doors closed, she glanced at the living room one last time. Janice was bending down, pointing to a page in a pop-up book, talking to Leo. Leo wasn't looking at the book; he turned his head to look in the direction of the elevator. Those eyes resembled hers, yet also Julian's, filled with a confusion that shouldn't exist at her age.

As the ride-hailing car drove out of the underground parking garage, the blinding morning light made Ava flinch.

She stared at her reflection in the window, a pale-faced woman with vacant eyes who didn't look like a billionaire's wife at all.

The car turned onto Broadway, and the towering glass curtain walls and steel buildings of the financial district came into view. The sight made her stomach clench.

She closed her eyes, but the images were already projected onto the back of her eyelids.

Three years ago. The chaos of liquidation. Davis Holdings, her father's company, was decimated by creditors after a hostile takeover orchestrated by Carlisle Industries.

Her father, Martin Davis, stood on the edge of the office building. A nauseating silence fell before the fall. Crimson blood spread, staining the pristine white sidewalks of Wall Street.

Her mother was consumed by grief and died two months later in a car accident, which police ruled an "accident".

Ava opened her eyes abruptly. She remembered the phone call. That afternoon, her mother had said she was going out to meet someone, her voice calmer than it had been in the past two months. She said, "Finally, someone is willing to tell me the truth." Ava asked who she was going to see, and her mother only said one thing—"Don't tell Julian." Those were the last words she spoke to her mother. Four hours later, the police arrived.

Ava's fingers dug deep into her knees, her short nails embedding themselves deep into the fabric of her jeans.

She remembered the cold, white walls of the psychiatrist's office. The doctor's gentle, compassionate voice explained "selective mutism." It was a traumatic reaction so profound that it robbed her of the ability to speak.

Subsequently, the Carlisle family proposed a "solution" to quell the ugly rumors surrounding the acquisition: a marriage. A union of victors and vanquished.

She was like a broken trophy, a flawed object, given to Julian to facilitate the deal.

Their wedding was held in the judge's office, quiet and solemn. There was no media, no family members other than his parents. Only lawyers and cold legal documents.

Julian didn't even glance at her as he took the oath. His gaze remained fixed on her shoulders, his face filled with pure, undisguised disgust.

But she remembered the moment he touched her finger—when the judge asked them to exchange rings, his fingertip lingered on her skin for a second longer than intended. That was the only second. Then he withdrew his hand, as if burned. At the time, she thought it was disgust. Later she realized it could have been something else entirely. She just never had the chance to confirm it.

The car screeched to a halt, jolting her forward. The driver cursed the taxi that had cut him off. A piercing horn snapped her back to reality.

Ava was breathing heavily, her chest tight. She pulled out her phone and, out of an ominous habit, opened her banking app. Her balance was pitifully low.

As Mrs. Julian Carlyle, she lived in a gilded cage, but Julian froze all her credit lines. He provided for her "basic needs" through a family account managed by his employees, ensuring she had no financial independence whatsoever. She didn't own a single penny.

The car eventually stopped in front of an old brick building in Brooklyn. This is the Harmony Expression Arts Center.

Ava paid the fare, got out of the car, and was greeted by the cool autumn air.

She looked up at the faded sign, her expression changing. The tension in her shoulders gradually dissipated. This place, despite its peeling paint and worn-out floor, was the only place she felt whole. Here, she was no longer Julian Carlisle's mute wife.

The moment she pushed open the door, a faded old photograph on the reception wall caught her eye. In the photo, her father stood on the same floor, wearing an old suit, holding a sign that read "Community Arts Fund Donor," smiling like an ordinary person. She would stop every time she passed this photo. He had never told her that he supported this place. She only discovered it after the acquisition, finding it among a pile of old newspapers.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her expression, and then pushed open the heavy glass door.

The volunteer at the front desk waved enthusiastically to her. Ava smiled and waved back.

She walked down the corridor toward the changing room, her steps much lighter than they had all morning.

She opened the locker and took out an old pair of black leggings and a faded vest.

She quickly changed her clothes, stood in front of the mirror, and tied her hair into a tight, high ponytail. This movement revealed the beautiful lines of her neck—a dancer's neck.

She picked up a worn notebook filled with choreography notes, her sketches and ideas scribbled on every page. Clutching the notebook tightly, she turned and headed towards the rehearsal room.

She paused at the door, pressing the notebook to her chest. She remembered the way her father had hung the donation plaque on the wall—she hadn't been there, but someone had taken a picture. He had no documents, no contracts, only a hammer and three nails from a hardware store. She touched the notebook's hard cover and pushed open the rehearsal room door.