POV: Ava Sinclair
The café on West 41st was quiet—warm lights, the soft hiss of an espresso machine, and the occasional clink of spoons in ceramic mugs. It wasn't the kind of place Ava usually found herself in. Too slow. Too calm.
But that was the point.
Julian sat across from her, in his usual gray blazer and rolled-up sleeves, stirring sugar into his black coffee like it meant something.
They hadn't spoken much yet. And for a while, that was okay.
Until Julian looked up.
"You seem far away."
Ava blinked. "Just... processing."
He leaned back, letting her fill the silence if she wanted to.
"You ever get the feeling you've walked into the middle of a story you were never supposed to be part of?" she asked.
Julian tilted his head. "Depends. Are you the villain or the hero?"
"Some days I'm not sure."
He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You don't have to carry all of this on your own, Ava."
She didn't respond. Because part of her wasn't sure if she believed that anymore.
"Do you think people can change?" she asked suddenly.
Julian's expression didn't shift, but he set his coffee down.
"Change or evolve?"
"There's a difference?"
"Change is easy. It's external. You get a new job, move to a new city. But evolving?" He looked her dead in the eyes. "That's painful. That's choosing to confront who you were, not just who you want to be."
Ava exhaled slowly. "You've thought about this before."
"Because I've had to."
Their eyes locked.
And something unsaid passed between them.
Not tension.
Not romance.
Just truth.
When they left the café, Julian walked her halfway back to Easton before splitting off.
"I've got a client call. See you tonight?" he asked.
"Maybe," she said, distracted. "I've got some digging to do."
They hugged briefly, and then he was gone.
Back in her office, Marla was waiting by Ava's desk, holding a folder Ava hadn't asked for.
"What's this?" Ava asked.
"Security clearance request. A journalist tried to access Easton's archived press releases. Digging into your father's name. Cross-referencing it with Eleanor Blackwood's foundation filings."
Ava's pulse spiked. "Who?"
Marla hesitated. "Said her name was—Amira Maddox."
Ava froze.
"Maddox?"
"Lucien's daughter," Marla added. "I checked. She's clean. But sharp. She's working on a piece about legacy corruption in media takeovers."
Ava opened the folder and scanned the request.
And there it was again.
That name.
Maddox.
The past wasn't done bleeding.
Ava stood alone in her apartment that evening, turning Lucien's envelope over in her hands again. Still sealed. Still waiting.
What was she so afraid of?
It wasn't the content.
It was what the truth might change about the people she thought she knew—about her father, about Damien, about Julian.
The envelope felt heavier now, as if it had grown since she last held it.
Her phone buzzed again.
Julian: "Still on for tonight? I'll bring food if you promise not to psychoanalyze me mid-bite."
She stared at it.
And didn't answer.
A knock at the door startled her.
Not Julian.
Not a delivery.
When she opened it, a courier handed her a small padded envelope.
Inside: a flash drive. No note.
She plugged it into her laptop.
One file.
Security footage – Sinclair Corp / 2 weeks before collapse
She clicked play.
A grainy video filled the screen.
Her father sat at a long table, head down, scribbling notes. At the far end, another figure appeared. Tall. Calm. Familiar.
Damien Blackwood.
They weren't arguing.
They weren't negotiating.
They were drinking.
And laughing.
Ava stared at the screen.
It didn't make sense.
Not if Damien had come to destroy him.
Not if her father had hated him.
But they were… comfortable. Friendly.
And that—more than anything—shook her.
Because what if the story she built her revenge on…
Was a lie?