Chapter 3 - The Ghost of IndianapolisThree weeks later, the snow in Chicago had melted into gray slush, but in a quiet, sunlit loft apartment above a local bakery in Indianapolis, the world felt entirely detached from corporate boardrooms and billionaire dynasties.
I sat at a rustic wooden table, sipping chamomile tea while sketching architectural blueprints on my iPad.
My name was no longer Ava Carter.
Using the emergency funds from my grandfather’s trust—funds Ethan’s arrogant financial team had never bothered to monitor closely because they assumed I was financially illiterate—I had legally reinstated my maiden name, Ava Vance, and purchased this quiet commercial live-work loft two hundred miles away from the prying eyes of the Windy City.
Here, nobody knew about Carter Enterprises. Nobody cared about the Forbes list or charity galas.
I was just an independent graphic designer and freelance urban planner taking local commissions.
Yet, as I placed a hand softly over my flat abdomen, reality settled in with a heavy, sweet ache.
Four weeks pregnant.
The morning sickness had finally subsided, leaving behind a profound, protective clarity. When I heard Ethan say those words at Halstead House, my heart had broken. But when I realized a new life was growing inside me—a child who would never be treated as an afterthought or an accessory to a billionaire’s portfolio—my sorrow transformed into unshakeable iron.
I was not going back.
And I would make damn sure Ethan never found us until I was strong enough to stand in front of him entirely on my own terms.
Little did I know, the digital net was tightening faster than I anticipated.
In Chicago, Ethan Carter had deployed every private investigator, hacker, and surveillance asset money could buy. He had torn through bank records, traffic cameras, and bus terminal logs across four states.
It wasn't my credit cards that gave me away. It was an old habit.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I walked down to the corner grocery store to pick up organic lemons and fresh ginger for my nausea. I paid with cash, but as I walked out, I paused at the community bulletin board to pin up a flyer for freelance architectural drafting.
Below my handwritten email address, I scribbled my old Boston phone number out of sheer muscle memory, updating it with a local area code, but using the exact same distinct calligraphy styling my college art professor had praised years ago.
Forty-eight hours later, a sleek black Maybach rolled quietly down the cobblestone alley of Indianapolis, parking directly beneath my apartment’s exterior fire escape.
Inside the car, Ethan stared at a photograph transmitted to his tablet by his lead investigator.
It was a blurry security still from a local hardware store two miles away. A woman with her hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing an oversized beige cardigan, paying for cedar planters.
Her profile.
His wife.
May you like
Ethan’s breath hitched. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked violently beneath his cheek.
“Wait here,” Ethan commanded his driver, pushing the heavy door open before Dante could even unclip his seatbelt.
