Page 39 of Ava After Midnight

And yet, he commands it without trying.

His eyes lock onto mine instantly—burning, branding. Everything else, the chaos, the ruined wedding, the shattered illusion, fades into static. It’s just him and me. The only real thing in this whole damn room.

A hush ripples through the crowd, the weight of his presence suffocating, undeniable.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile, dark amusement flickering in his gaze as he takes another measured step forward. Like he’s savoring the destruction he walked into.

“This little white lie doesn’t suit you,mi cielo,” his voice is a sin-drenched whisper, wrapping around me like silk and steel. He tilts his head, gaze dragging over me with possession, with certainty.

“…but my mark did.”

Chapter Twelve

DOMINGO

Chaos unfolds before me like a twisted but well-rehearsed routine, each movement hitting with precision, each gasp from the crowd another note in the symphony of destruction. My entrance was just the overture—Mateo and the others are already in position, scattered through the pews, waiting for Zoe’s signal.

Matthew steps forward, all controlled rage and expensive cologne. “This is a private ceremony?—”

“Private like the secrets you keep?” I smirk, reveling in the way his eyes widen. “Or private like the marks I left on your bride last night?”

The reaction is instantaneous. Gasps ripple through the church, someone audibly chokes, and Matthew’s mother clutches her pearls so hard I almost expect them to break.

But my eyes never leave Ava.

She’s radiant even in shock, her lips parted, her entire body humming with tension. She’s still standing where I left her—next to him. But her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to reach for something else.

For me.

Zoe moves first, her hand darting to her phone. My heartbeat stutters. Showtime.

“Security!” Matthew barks, but he’s already too late.

The first notes of Earned It swell through the sacred space—not The Weeknd’s version. The classical arrangement. The one I spent the entire morning orchestrating this, ensuring every note, every movement, was flawlessly timed. The string quartet, already seated, doesn’t miss a beat—because they’re not just any musicians.

They’re mine. Zoe’s help, a few well-placed calls, a generous donation, and a little persuasion ensured the original quartet was swapped for my people. Professionals who know exactly when to play and, more importantly, when to shift the rhythm of a moment.

“What the hell is going on?” Matthew’s mother shrieks, her voice shrill over the violins.

Movement. From the pews.

One dancer rises.

Then another.

And another.

Mateo catches my eye near the front, that familiar pre-performance electricity crackling between us. The strings build, the arrangement weaving seduction into every note, and suddenly, Ava isn’t at a wedding anymore.

She’s inside a dream.

“You told me your dreams were too wild for his world,” I murmur, stepping forward as the first dancer moves into formation. “Let me show you how beautiful the wild can be.”

The bass drops.

The classical arrangement shatters into the full version, deep and sensual, the kind of rhythm that sinks into the skin. Dancers flood the aisle, moving with the same passion that first drewAva to me in that club. Controlled chaos. A love letter written in movement.

Ava’s breath hitches. Her fingers curl at her sides, fists clenching in the fabric of her dress.

---