After giving birth to triplets, Ava’s world collapsed. In the hospital, David didn’t offer comfort—he brought his young mistress, Chloe, draped in luxury and sneering at Ava’s post-partum body. “You’re a disaster,” he spat, tossing divorce papers and a custody waiver onto her bed. Ava realized her life of “normalcy” had been a fatal mistake.
Two days later, the nightmare worsened. Returning home with newborns and stitches, Ava found her Victorian house locked, the deed transferred to Chloe. Rain soaked her and the babies as Chloe taunted her in Ava’s own silk robe. With nothing left, Ava reached for a number she hadn’t dialed in years: The Architect.
“Dad, he locked us out. We’re in the rain. I have nowhere to go,” she sobbed.
Forty-eight hours later, retribution arrived. David hosted a “Freedom Party,” champagne spraying, music thumping. Then six armored Cadillacs rolled in, blocking every exit. Viktor, a towering enforcer, smashed the bottle from David’s hand.
Donat Volkov, Ava’s father, stepped out, alongside Elena, her mother—ice in their eyes, power in every movement. “We are the nightmare you ignored,” Elena said.
Ava emerged from the third vehicle, triplets in tow, silk flowing, no longer a victim. She had returned as a Volkov. David’s empire of arrogance crumbled around him, and justice had arrived in full force.