The storm came in quiet.
The forecast hadn't called for it, but nature didn't care for schedules, and neither, it seemed, did fate.
Ava stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of Damien's Hamptons estate, watching thunderclouds pile like bruises on the horizon. The ocean churned beyond the cliffs, white-capped and restless. Inside, the house hummed with stillness—too vast, too polished, too perfect.
They'd come out for a weekend photoshoot.
Now they were trapped.
"Looks like we're staying in," she murmured, arms crossed.
Behind her, Damien poured a drink. "Is that disappointment I hear?"
"No," she said, without turning. "Just curiosity. What does the Ice King do when he can't hide behind boardrooms and black cars?"
He stepped up beside her, offering a glass. "He drinks bourbon and avoids small talk."
She took the glass. "Then I'm in trouble. I specialize in small talk."
"You specialize in disarming people."
"Same thing."
They sipped in silence.
Outside, rain began to fall in thick, slanted sheets. The windows blurred, turning the world soft and undefined. A fire crackled in the marble hearth behind them. Ava didn't move.
Neither did he.
"You don't let many people in here, do you?" she asked finally.
"No."
She glanced sideways. "And yet you brought me."
Damien's gaze was unreadable. "You're not most people."
.
.
They ate dinner by firelight—Chinese takeout on fine china, the storm battering the walls. It felt strangely intimate, like playing house. Ava couldn't stop watching his hands—the way he used chopsticks with careless grace, the way he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, always precise.
"You don't talk about your childhood," she said softly.
He didn't flinch. "Neither do you."
"Touches."
A moment passed.
Then: "I was eight when my father died," he said, eyes fixed on the fire. "Plane crash. My mother… she held it together until she didn't."
Ava swallowed.
"She was the strongest person I knew," he continued. "And the loneliest."
"You loved her."
"I worshipped her." He paused. "She deserved better than this world gave her."
Ava felt something shift. "So you decided to take it all back."
Damien looked at her then. "I decided no one would ever take from me again."
Midnight-
Later, as thunder rolled like distant drums, Ava wandered into the music room—drawn by sound.
She paused in the doorway.
Damien sat at the grand piano, shirt sleeves rolled, back straight. He didn't see her.
The melody was low, aching, not polished like his public self but raw, beautiful in its pain. His fingers moved like he was remembering someone who no longer belonged to the world.
When the final note faded, Ava stepped in.
"I didn't know you played."
Damien turned, startled. "I usually don't."
"Why now?"
He hesitated. "Because it's the one place I don't have to lie."
She crossed to him slowly. "Then play something for me."
He looked up.
"I don't care if it's messy," she said. "Just… don't pretend."
He played again.
This time, Ava sat beside him.
Their shoulders brushed.
And between the chords, between the silence, something unspoken unfolded—a fragile thing, not yet trust, but no longer distance.
Storm's End
By the time the storm passed, they were no longer strangers.
Not quite lovers.
But something in between.
Damien turned to her as dawn bled into the sky, eyes darker than the night they'd survived.
"This was never part of the plan," he said.
Ava's voice was soft. "Plans change."
He looked at her like she was a future he hadn't dared imagine.
Then, quietly:
'I don't know how to do this."
And she answered, without fear:
"Then we'll figure it out. Or we'll burn trying."
The wind howled like a warning, rattling the high windows as if the house itself were unsettled.
After Damien's unexpected confession at the piano, a silence hung between them—not awkward, but charged. Ava found herself studying the lines of his face, the way tension rested on his shoulders like a second skin, never quite eased.
"You don't let many people see you like that," she said, still seated beside him on the piano bench.
"I don't let anyone," he corrected. His fingers hovered over the keys but didn't press.
She didn't ask for more. It felt like enough—that he'd shared anything at all. Still, part of her longed to ask everything. About his mother. About the woman who'd broken him. About why he still played music like it was the only way he could feel without breaking apart.
Instead, she reached forward, pressing a single low note on the piano. The sound lingered, deep and vibrating through the room.
"I used to dream of being a journalist," she said. "Before PR. Before my father ruined that for me."
Damien turned. "Why didn't you?"
"Because I learned fast how easy it was for truth to be twisted." She swallowed. "My father taught me that. Every speech, every lie he sold the public—it was polished by people like me. Spun until even I couldn't tell what was real."
"You hated him for it."
"I still do."
Damien studied her, like he saw something beneath the armor. "And yet you're still trying to clean up other people's messes."
She let out a dry laugh. "Some of us believe in second chances, Damien."
He looked away. "Not all of us get them."
The storm outside swelled again, a fresh gust of rain pounding the glass. The air was thick with words unsaid.
Ava stood, restless. "This place is beautiful, but it doesn't feel lived in. You ever actually stay here?"
"Rarely." He stood too, slipping his hands into his pockets. "It was my mother's dream. I kept it, but…" He shrugged. "It doesn't feel like mine."
"Then what does?"
The question hung between them.
Damien didn't answer.
Instead, he walked past her into the main hallway, and something in his posture invited her to follow.
A Gallery of Ghosts-
The room he led her to was dimly lit, long and narrow, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end and framed sketches along the wall. Not art from a gallery. These were architectural drawings—buildings never built, bridges that spanned imagined rivers, homes too intricate for reality.
Ava stepped closer. "You drew these?"
Damien's voice came quiet behind her. "Before the company. Before I convinced myself none of it mattered."
"They're stunning."
"They're fantasies."
She looked over her shoulder. "So is falling in love. People still do it."
He didn't smile.
But he didn't look away.
Firelight and Shadows-
Back in the living room, the fire had dwindled to embers. Ava threw another log on, crouching close to the heat. Damien returned with a blanket and a bottle of wine—red, rich, too expensive to open on a stormy night, but perfect for unraveling secrets.
They sat on the rug.
Not the couch.
Close, but not touching.
Ava let her head fall back, staring at the ceiling's coffered beams. "So what's next, Mr. Thorne? More staged photos? A fabricated meet-the-parents moment? Should I start picking china patterns for our fake wedding?"
His voice was dry. "Only if we're billing it to the PR budget."
She laughed—genuinely—and for a moment, everything sharp inside her dulled.
Then Damien turned toward her, his eyes searching.
"No one ever talks to me like you do."
She arched a brow. "Maybe because they're afraid you'll devour them."
He didn't laugh.
Instead, his gaze dropped to her mouth. "You're not afraid of me."
"I'm afraid of a lot of things," she whispered. "Just not you."
A beat passed.
And then, like gravity had given up pretending it didn't care, he leaned in.
The kiss wasn't sudden.
It was inevitable.
It was slow and searing, a storm all its own.
Aftermath;
They pulled apart eventually—breathless, stunned.
Damien looked wrecked. "That shouldn't have happened."
Ava, heart pounding, eyes wide, said softly, "But it did."
And they both knew it wouldn't be the last time.
The kiss still lingered on Ava's lips long after they'd parted. She didn't move. Neither did Damien. For a few stunned seconds, they sat frozen in the hush of the firelight, caught between the heat of what just happened and the fear of what it meant.
Ava broke the silence first. "So… is that part of the contract?"
Damien's lips quirked, but it wasn't quite a smile. "If it is, I think I just violated every clause."
She pulled the blanket tighter around her, needing something to anchor her. "We said no feelings. Just strategy."
"And do you feel something?" he asked, voice quiet, eyes on her like he already knew the answer.
Ava hesitated. The truth clawed at her throat. "I feel like I should run."
"Then why haven't you?"
Because she didn't want to.
Because for the first time in years, someone had looked at her and seen beneath the polish, the pitch, the armor. And maybe… she'd seen him too.
Instead of answering, she reached for the wine again and poured a fresh glass. "If we're doing dangerous things tonight, might as well make it a full list."
Damien watched her for a moment before taking his own glass. "Tell me something real, Ava. No spin. No filters."
She sipped, then stared into the glass. "Okay. I used to sleep with my shoes by the door. Just in case reporters came knocking."
His brows lifted slightly. "After your father's scandal?"
"Yeah." She set the glass down. "There were nights I'd wake up and think the walls were closing in. That someone had found a new headline to smear me with. I've been running damage control since I was nineteen."
He was quiet for a beat, then said, "I know the feeling."
She tilted her head. "Of scandal?"
"Of living like the next disaster is already in motion." He exhaled. "You know my mother died in the spotlight. One mistake—one wrong deal—and her name was dragged through the dirt. I spent a long time thinking if I built something strong enough, ruthless enough, nothing could touch me."
Ava looked at him. "But you're still afraid."
He didn't deny it.
Outside, thunder rumbled again—low, distant. The worst of the storm had passed, but something told Ava the real storm hadn't even begun.
Late Hours and Lines Crossed-
Later, when they each retreated to their rooms, Ava lay awake under linen sheets, staring at the carved ceiling beams.
She heard Damien's footsteps in the hall once. He paused outside her door.
And kept walking.
She exhaled.
It shouldn't have hurt.
This was a business arrangement.
But feelings didn't sign contracts. And hearts didn't ask for permission before they cracked open.
When she finally drifted to sleep, it was to the sound of rain softening against the windows and the memory of Damien's lips pressed to hers like a secret neither of them could afford to keep.
The clock ticked past midnight.
Ava sat at the grand piano bench, barefoot, the hem of her silk sleep shorts brushing her knees. She wasn't sure what had drawn her back to the music room—maybe the memory of Damien's hands on the keys, the haunting echo of notes half-finished. Maybe the weight of that kiss still humming in her chest.
She pressed one key. Then another.
C.
A.
D.
The notes hung in the air like question marks.
"You're not the only one who can play," she murmured to herself.
"Is that so?"
Damien:s voice startled her. He stood in the doorway, a loose sweater tugged on over a white undershirt, his hair slightly tousled from sleep—or restlessness.
Ava didn't turn. "Couldn't sleep."
He stepped in. "Neither could I."
She shifted. "Funny! how silence is louder in places like this."
Damien joined her at the bench. Their shoulders brushed. Her skin tingled.
"Play something," she said, before she could think better of it.
He hesitated. Then his fingers lowered to the keys. Soft. Hesitant. He played a slow, unfamiliar melody—aching and delicate, like something he'd written and forgotten, only now remembering it in pieces.
"What's it called?" Ava asked softly.
"I never named it."
She looked at him. "Why?
He stared straight ahead. "Because it wasn't for anyone else to hear."
She swallowed hard. "Then why play it now?"
Damien turned to her, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because you asked."
They sat there in the stillness, surrounded by shadows and music and truths that neither of them dared put into words.
Finally, Ava spoke.
"I'm scared, Damien."
He blinked. "Of what?"
"That if I fall for this—fall for you—I'll lose everything I've built."
He nodded. "I'm scared you'll see the worst of me and realize you were right not to trust me."
Silence.
Then Ava leaned forward, pressed one soft kiss to his shoulder, and whispered, "Maybe we're both already falling."
A long pause stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Outside, the rain had softened into a steady rhythm, like nature was listening too.
Damien's eyes lingered on the keys, but Ava watched him.
"You always look like you're about to run," she said softly.
He glanced at her, surprised. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you hold your breath when people get close." She gave a small smile. "And because I've seen that look in the mirror."
He let out a breath—sharp, forced. "You don't know the half of it."
"Then tell me." Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but it held weight. "Tell me something real, Damien. Not the business moves. Not the headlines. Just you."
He stared at her for a long beat, as if calculating how much of himself he could afford to give away. And then, to her surprise, he started speaking.
"When I was ten, I broke my wrist climbing the terrace at my boarding school. I told the nurse I fell. Truth was, I was trying to sneak out to see the stars."
Ava blinked. "Why?"
"Because they were the only things that didn't lie." His jaw flexed. "Everything else in that world—money, power, even family—it all came with strings attached. But the stars? They just… existed."
She looked at him differently now. Not as the billionaire who dictated press conferences and demolished competitors. But as the lonely boy who once risked a broken wrist just to feel something honest.
"That's the real you," she said, quietly.
"Don't get used to it."
"I already have."
He turned to her then, fully. "You're not what I expected, Ava Hart."
"No one ever expects the PR girl to peel back the armor."
"You're doing more than that," he said, voice rough. "You're undoing me."
A flush bloomed in her chest. But she didn't back away. "Good."
Their faces were close now—too close. But neither moved.
She should have pulled back. He should have said something cold, businesslike. But instead, his hand came up, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face.
"I don't do messy," he whispered.
"You already are," she whispered back.
And then, this time, it wasn't tension. It wasn't obligation or headlines. It was want.
When his mouth met hers, it was slow and deliberate, not the firework explosion of earlier. It was searching—uncertain—and infinitely more dangerous. Because it felt real.
His hands cupped her jaw like she was something breakable. Her fingers curled into the soft fabric at his chest.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, neither spoke. The silence didn't need filling.
But as she stood to leave, his voice stopped her at the door.
"I don't know what this is yet," he said. "But it's not pretend anymore."
She met his gaze, her voice shaking. "Then we're both in trouble."
She left him there at the piano, the night still humming with the things neither of them were ready to say.