The penthouse was silent when they returned—too silent.
The kind of silence that echoed with everything left unsaid.
Ava stepped out of her heels in the entryway with a sigh, the marble cold beneath her bare feet. Damien followed behind her, his jacket draped over one arm, tie loose at the collar. He looked less like Manhattan's coldest billionaire and more like a man coming undone, thread by careful thread.
"I need a drink," she muttered, heading for the bar.
He said nothing, just watched her. Watched the way she moved through his world like she didn't belong—and yet had already rearranged it without meaning to.
Ava poured herself a whiskey—neat, no hesitation. She took a sip, the warmth sliding down her throat like courage. She turned to him.
"You didn't have to threaten Cameron."
Damien leaned against the doorway, eyes unreadable. "I didn't threaten him. I warned him."
"There's a difference?"
"Yes," he said. "With me, warnings come first."
She exhaled, setting the glass down. "You know, the thing about pretending to be someone's fiancee? People start asking questions. Real ones. Like… how we met. What we fight about. Where we keep the ring when it's not on my finger."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "And?"
"And I hate lying," she said simply. "I'm good at it, yes. But I hate it."
A beat of silence.
Damien stepped closer. "You wanted this arrangement."
"I wanted a breakthrough. A chance. Not a war with the media or whatever vendetta you have with your past."
He said nothing for a long moment. Then: "I didn't ask you to play hero."
"No," she said softly. "But maybe you needed one anyway."
The words hung between them like a live wire. Then he stepped even closer, slow and deliberate, until there was barely a breath of space between them.
"You're dangerous," he said, voice low.
She tilted her chin up. "So are you."
And then—he kissed her.
Not the kind of kiss that belonged in the press releases or Instagram stories. This one was rough-edged, unscripted, and far too real. It was the kind of kiss that didn't ask permission, but gave everything.
Her hands curled in his shirt.
His fingers found the small of her back again, but this time it wasn't for show.
When they broke apart, breathless, Ava stared at him.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispered.
"Then stop me."
She didn't.
Later That Night—
Ava lay awake in the guest bedroom—not Damien's, not yet, staring at the ceiling, the sound of the city far below like a heartbeat she couldn't quiet. The kiss had changed things. Or maybe it had just exposed what was already there, hiding beneath contracts and curated smiles.
She thought of his hand on hers, the way his eyes softened when he wasn't being watched.
She also thought of the secrets—because Damien Thorne had plenty. And she was starting to think this fake engagement wasn't about her at all.
It was about what he was hiding.
And what he was too afraid to want.
Damien's Study—
He sat at his desk, lights dim, staring at the photograph in the drawer he never opened.
A woman smiling. Not Ava.
The past still had claws.
But tonight, for the first time in years, he'd kissed someone and hadn't felt like he was betraying a ghost.
Just maybe… he was beginning to feel again.
And that terrified him more than anything.
The kiss had shattered something between them. Or perhaps it had built something new on the ruins—something unspoken, taut, electric. Ava pulled away first, but only barely, her breath trembling against his.
"This wasn't part of the contract," she said.
Damien's voice was like velvet wrapped around steel. "Neither was wanting to do it again."
Ava stepped back, physically and emotionally, needing the space. "That's not how this works. We keep it clean, professional—PR lines, public smiles, and nothing behind closed doors."
"You didn't seem to mind the last part," he said coolly, but his eyes betrayed the quip—there was uncertainty in them. A flicker of something he rarely let show.
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't turn this into one of your power games."
He stilled.
Ava grabbed her glass again and took another sip. "You said this engagement was about control. About reshaping the narrative. You didn't say it would come with… complications."
Damien ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't plan for them either."
That startled her more than anything. He looked genuinely thrown.
She placed the glass down, her voice lower now. "What are you really trying to fix, Damien? Because you act like this is about your image. But there's something else, isn't there? Something older. Something… broken."
He flinched, barely perceptible. But she saw it.
'You don't know me," he said.
"No," she agreed. "But I think I want to. And that's the problem."
A silence fell, heavier this time.
Finally, Damien exhaled. "You're right. It's messy. This thing between us—it's not what I intended. But I'm not the only one crossing lines, Ava."
She looked at him, her walls half-raised, half-falling.
And then—her phone rang.
The sound cut through the tension like a blade.
Ava fished it out of her clutch. The screen lit up: Lena.
She answered quickly, stepping toward the hallway. "Hey, what's—
"You need to check the news," Lena said, voice sharp.
Ava's stomach dropped. 'What happened?"
"There's a leak. Someone dug up your father's old campaign finances. Your name's all over it."
Her throat closed. "What?"
"I'm sending you the link now. It's blowing up."
Ava turned slowly toward Damien, her expression changing—like glass cracking from the inside.
He watched her, already guessing. "What is it?"
She lowered the phone. "Did you do this?"
His eyes narrowed. 'Do what?"
"Dig into me. Feed the press a story to shift focus off you."
His expression hardened. "You think I'd sabotage you?"
"I don't know what you're capable of!" she snapped.
He took a step toward her, voice low. 'No. But you will."
One Hour Later—
The headlines were already circulating by the time Ava retreated to the guest room, door locked, phone vibrating with calls she ignored. Every ugly headline from her childhood had clawed its way back: Senator Hart's daughter linked to new scandal. PR Princess or Political Pawn?
It was like being fifteen again, hearing the news break in the school hallway, hearing the whispers.
She sat on the edge of the bed, heart racing, trying to breathe.
And in the other room, Damien stood alone with a burning glass of scotch in his hand and the sinking knowledge that he didn't do it but someone had.
And someone wanted Ava out of the way.
Midnight—
She heard the soft knock but didn't answer.
Damien's voice came through the door. "I didn't leak it."
Ava said nothing.
"I know what that kind of betrayal feels like. I wouldn't do it to you."
Still nothing.
He exhaled. "Get some sleep, Ava."
But neither of them slept.
The storm outside had rolled in thick and low, casting long shadows across the penthouse windows. Rain tapped at the glass in frantic rhythms, like a warning. Ava lay awake, back against cool silk sheets, phone screen dimmed on the nightstand. Headlines still raced through her mind like wildfire.
But what lingered louder than any article… was Damien's voice outside her door.
And the kiss.
She closed her eyes and tried to unfeeling it. The burn of his mouth. The steadiness of his hands. The contradiction of fire and restraint.
A mistake, she told herself.
Except part of her didn't want to forget it.
When sleep finally came, it was brief and filled with flashes—her father in courtrooms, Damien at a piano, her name in ink again and again, never her own.
Morning—
She found him in the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled, pouring coffee like he hadn't been at the center of a media inferno.
"Morning," he said.
Her voice was dry. "That's generous."
He handed her a mug. "I made it strong. Thought you might need it."
"I need answers," she replied.
Damien leaned back against the counter. "I called my legal team last night. We')'re tracing the leak. If it came from my end, I'll know by noon."
"And if it didn't?" she asked.
"Then someone's gunning for one of us—or both."
She crossed her arms. "That's not exactly comforting."
"I don't do comforting," he said, tone sharp. "I do protection. And this? I will fix."
Ava studied him. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before. Not arrogance. Not control.
Worry.
Real worry.
She exhaled. "What if this ruins me, Damien? What if my name never escapes his shadow?"
He looked at her then, deeply. "Then we make them forget his name. And remember yours."
Later That Day—
The PR war began before lunch. Lena called with updates—half a dozen clients had dropped, and another few were on the fence. Ava barely had time to process it before the gallery event Damien insisted they still attend loomed on the calendar.
"You want to go tonight?" she asked, aghast.
"We cancel now, the sharks smell blood," Damien said, buttoning his cufflinks.
"Let them smell it. I'm not parading around to distract them from a scandal."
"It's not about distraction," he said. "It's about control. Show them you're untouchable."
She scoffed. "You think I can just smile and make them forget?"
"I think you can walk into that gallery and make them listen."
A beat. Then:
"I believe in you, Ava."
Her breath caught.
He didn't say it like a line. He said it like a promise.
The Gallery—
Lights glittered. Champagne sparkled. Cameras waited.
Ava stepped out of the car in crimson—bold, unapologetic, defiant. Damien's hand found her lower back, a silent anchor. Together, they walked through the doors like royalty.
Whispers followed them, but Ava didn't falter.
And when a reporter called out, "Ms. Hart, any comment on your father's reopened records?"
She smiled—slow, cool, not bothered.
"I'm not responsible for my father's sins," she said. "Only my own success."
Flashbulbs exploded.
And somewhere, Damien smirked.
The moment they stepped into the gallery, Ava felt it—the subtle shift in the air, the pause in conversations, the way eyes subtly tracked her movements. She was used to attention. PR was, after all, her battlefield. But this was different. This was about her.
Not her work.
Not her strategy.
Her.
Beside her, Damien moved like a blade sheathed in silk. Controlled. Cold. Commanding. And yet, when his hand brushed hers, even for a second, something hot and flickering sparked in her chest.
"You're doing well," he murmured under his breath.
"I haven't strangled anyone yet," she replied. "So far, so good."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
They made rounds through the gallery, pausing in front of pieces that felt more like conversations than art. One piece, in particular, caught Ava's eye—a sculpture in fractured glass and metal, half-lit from below. It looked like it had once been whole… and shattered beautifully.
"What do you see?" Damien asked.
She tilted her head. "Wreckage. But… not ruined. There's power in what survived."
He was quiet for a beat. "That's why I bought it."
Ava blinked. "You bought this?"
"Years ago. I donated it anonymously." He glanced sideways. "Reminded me of someone."
"Someone you lost?"
"Someone I trusted."
The walls between them cracked an inch wider.
An hour later, as guests mingled and champagne flowed, Damien stepped away for a call. Ava took a breath, trying to center herself. But before she could reach for another glass, a voice slid up behind her like oil.
"Quite the rise, Ms. Hart. From scandal to spectacle."
She turned.
Cameron Blake.
Charming grin. Predatory eyes. Microphone in his coat pocket.
"Are you ever not working?" she said flatly.
"You're news now," he said with a shrug. "And news doesn't sleep."
She narrowed her eyes. "Funny. You don't seem interested in the real story."
"Oh, I am." He leaned in. "Especially the parts Damien Thorne doesn't want anyone to find."
Before she could answer, Damien returned—expression unreadable.
"Is there a problem?" he asked coolly.
"Not at all," Cameron said, all polite teeth. "Just admiring the art."
Damien's voice dropped. "Find a different gallery, Blake."
Cameron left with a knowing smirk.
Ava swallowed. "He's digging."
"He always has," Damien said.
"But why does he matter so much to you?"
Damien looked away, jaw tight. "Because once, I trusted him too."
Back at the Penthouse—
Later, back at the penthouse, Ava stood on the balcony, barefoot, letting the wind tug her curls loose. The city hummed below—oblivious, alive.
Damien approached quietly. No jacket, just his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled.
"You're cold," he said softly.
"I'm fine," she replied.
"Lie better."
She didn't answer.
He offered his jacket. She took it.
"I meant what I said earlier," he added after a beat. "I believe in you."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you're not afraid to fight. And because you don't pretend to be something you're not."
She looked at him. "You do."
He blinked.
"You wear armor so heavy, I wonder if you remember what your own skin feels like."
He didn't speak for a long time.
Then, quietly: "It's easier that way."
Ava stepped closer, until they were a breath apart.
"Well," she whispered, "you might want to practice being uncomfortable. Because I'm not done peeling you back yet."
And with that, she left him on the balcony.
Alone.
Again.
But this time… shaken.