POV: Damien Blackwood
Damien had seen Ava before she noticed him at the summit.
She'd been standing by the espresso bar, eyes scanning the crowd like she was already strategizing her next move. She wore black like armor, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense twist, but there was something restless in her posture.
She looked like she wanted to set the whole room on fire—and then walk away without watching it burn.
And still, he found himself staring.
Not just at her.
But at the version of himself she made him remember: the version who once sat across from Jonathan Sinclair and admired his optimism, even as he planned to destroy him.
He'd walked into that room ten years ago with sharp suits and sharper intentions. Ava had been just a name. Just collateral.
But now, she had weight. She had edge.
And worst of all—she had his attention.
The night before the summit, his mother had come to dinner. Not by invitation—Eleanor Blackwood didn't ask permission.
She arrived at his penthouse with a silk scarf around her throat and that same old smile that never reached her eyes.
"You've grown colder," she said as she sipped her wine.
"And you've grown bolder," he replied. "Didn't think you'd show your face at Easton."
"I'm allowed to invest where I please."
"You're not allowed to meddle."
Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you decide that?"
Damien didn't respond.
Because he knew what she was really doing: using Ava to make a point. Planting herself in the middle of the one woman Damien couldn't ignore.
"She's bright," Eleanor had said. "She reminds me of me. That should scare you."
He'd finished his glass.
It did scare him.
But not the way his mother meant.
During the panel, Damien kept his voice even, his words precise.
But he was aware of Ava—just off-center, her gaze sharp, her silence louder than anyone's questions.
When their eyes met, it hit him like it always did: the pull.
Not just attraction. Not just guilt.
Curiosity.
He wanted to know how she survived what he did to her. How she turned pain into power. How she didn't flinch when he spoke, even though he knew she wanted to throw his legacy back in his face.
But when Carmen Voss showed up, he saw something shift.
Carmen wasn't like other people. She didn't play games with pleasantries.
And she saw everything.
After Ava left with her, Damien stayed at the bar, sipping whiskey he didn't enjoy, listening to executives talk about markets he didn't care about.
His mother's voice haunted him still:
She reminds me of me.
But she didn't.
Ava didn't manipulate people to win.
She didn't break them.
Not yet.
That night, Damien returned to his penthouse alone. He stood by the window, overlooking the city. The skyline had changed since his father's time, but the game hadn't.
Thomas Blackwood had built empires and buried people to do it.
He'd taught Damien that vulnerability was a currency best left untouched. And when Damien refused to follow blindly, the man disowned him—publicly.
Eleanor had picked up the pieces.
But even she had limits.
He still remembered the last thing his father said before walking out of Damien's life for good:
"You'll build something great, Damien. But God help the woman who tries to love you through it."
He hadn't believed it then.
Now, sometimes, he wasn't sure.
He poured another drink but didn't touch it.
Instead, he walked to the drawer he kept locked—one Ava would never see.
Inside was a copy of her father's last letter.
Not to her.
To him.
Damien—
You won. I hope it was worth what it cost you.
One day, my daughter will know the truth. And when she does, I wonder if you'll still be able to look her in the eyes.
He folded it and put it away again.
Because the truth wasn't simple.
And neither was she.
And maybe—just maybe—he wasn't afraid of her learning what he did.
Maybe he was afraid she'd understand it.